


Domestic Drabbles

by hubrisandwax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlets, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sex, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 21,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically a collection of drabbles (usually) involving Fallen!Cas. Includes some episode codas too, as well as a variety of other deancas ficlets. Each is a completed work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take your canvas bags when you go to the supermarket

**Author's Note:**

> I write a lot of angst, so to counteract that, I've been posting drabbles involving a more domestic Castiel to tumblr (it helps me learn to characterise him and Dean more accurately). This is them.
> 
> I'll update rating and characters/relationships as I go. All should be around 500-700 words-ish. I'll try. Most will also involve Destiel.
> 
> I hope you enjoy them! I'm not that good at writing fluff, but I'm trying.
> 
>  _Title for this chapter taken from Tim Minchin's song_ Canvas Bags _. I couldn't think of anything better, sorry._

Castiel has a breakdown in the grocery store between the aisles of preserves and the canned beans.

"Dean," he whispers frantically in to the mouthpiece of his cellphone, "I cannot do this."

So far, he's collected three out of the eight items on his list - milk, tomatoes, and mince. No one told him which dishwashing detergent is the best, though, or that there are about ten different types of potato, or whether he should get rolls with the little seeds or without.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean says, worried. Cas huffs, a tiny exhalation of air, and shifts with his basket of groceries, moving further down the aisle. He looks down at the brightly coloured packets of pasta.

"There are too many choices, Dean! I don't know what you want. Is 'penne' okay, or would you prefer 'spaghetti'?" 

Dean laughs, not unkindly.

"Really, Cas? You got me worried over a grocery list?"

"This is important, Dean. I do not have the knowledge the average human has when it comes to behaviours of habit. I have no idea what a bintje is, and why it is different to a pink eye - isn't that a colloquial term for an illness where one rubs faeces into their eye? - or why there are orange and cream coloured carrots - aren't all carrots orange? - and-"

Dean interrupts him. "The white carrots are called parsnips, Cas. They're another sort of root vegetable. They're nothin' like carrots. And get dutch cream potatoes; they roast the best."

Cas exhales sharply. "Dean, see; I need you."

"I know you do, Cas," Dean murmurs gently, sweetly, the double meaning clear. "But I trust you. Pick whatever you think looks best. Just don't forget the pie."

"Okay," Cas says, gazing apprehensively back down at the pasta. "I'll try for you, Dean."

"See you back at the bunker when you're done?"

Castiel pulls a bag of 'rotini' into his basket because he likes the look of the little spirals. "Okay." He pauses. "Thank you. I uh... love you." 

The 'end call' button is hit before Dean can reply. He's not sure if he'll ever get used to saying those words quite so easily.

Castiel grabs a bag of the 'fettuccine', too, for good measure, along with a can of alphabet soup, the rest of the items on the list, and a few other things he thinks look interesting. He also selects the largest bottle of the lube Dean likes on his way out, thinking Dean will be pleased. This is the one thing he knows.

When the cashier checks through his four carrots and lube after each other Castiel doesn't understand his funny look. He just keeps grinning.

"For Dean," he says happily, handing over the cash to pay and tightly gripping the handles of his canvas bags ("Saving the world, one shopping trip at a time," Dean had said when Castiel brought them home one day).

Dean isn't impressed, however, when Castiel returns home with five different cheeses, three packets of baby corn, seven leeks, six kilograms worth of chocolate and a durian.

"I thought Sam liked 'Duran'," he replies miserably when Dean brandishes the fruit at him.

"The band, Cas. Duran Duran. Not durian, the fruit."

Castiel looks up at him with those big baby blues, and Dean can't help but brush his lips delicately against the edge of Cas' jaw. "'So'kay, Cas. I just hope you like chocolate." He eyes the massive bottle of lube. "And sex."

Castiel hums in assent. "Together? Or separately?"

Dean groans.


	2. I'm really awful at titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel applies for a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an interview with Misha Collins (which I can no longer find. When I do, I'll link it).

"My name is Castiel. I would like a job."

Castiel stands in the university office, dirty trench coat hanging limply off his too-thin frame, tax account getup tattered and warn as he leans into the personal space of the woman behind the desk.

"I beg your pardon?" she says, affronted, easing back on her roller chair to create distance between her and the slightly deranged looking man.

"A job," he says. "Here." He pulls a wrinkled newspaper sheet from inside his tan coat and brandishes it at the woman, pointing at an article. "It says, 'History of Theology Lecturer required. Must have significant experience and knowledge regarding religion.’ It proceeds to mention this educational institution.”

The woman eyes him warily. “You need to submit a proper application, I’m afraid. And a resume.”

Castiel frowns, easing away from her. “How do I do that?”

She looks at him, confused. “You’d be what, in your mid to late 30s? Surely you’ve applied for a job before.”

Castiel squints back, tilting his head, fumbling with his phone in his pocket. “I’ve, uh, never had occasion.” He looks away uncomfortably. 

“Right,” she says, slowly enunciating, as if she doesn’t quite believe him. “Just type up a list of jobs you’ve had previously, any credentials you have, and why you think you’d be suitable for the job, and print it out and give it to me once you’re done.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, suddenly looking pleased.

He returns an hour later with a piece of paper clutched in one hand, his hair even more unkempt than it was prior to his previous departure, skin pink-tinged and wind blown.

“You mange it fine?” the woman says, looking up from her computer when she sees him enter. 

He smiles at her and hands over the piece of paper.

A beat.

Her face suddenly screws up; she she splutters, “Is this some sort of practical joke? Are you high?" And holds the paper almost tentatively away from her body, as if it might bite her.

“No,” Castiel says, smile dropping, looking affronted. “I’m an Angel of the Lord, as it says on the paper.”

“As well as a ‘Warrior of Heaven’, ‘Preventer of the Apocalypse’ and ‘Dean Winchester’s Personal Guardian Angel’?”

“Yes,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. “I’m particularly pleased with that last one.”

“What even…” she glances disbelievingly back down at the paper.

“I feel I am excellently suited to this job.”

“Qualifications include 'reciting the bible from memory'?”

“I can demonstrate if you like.”

“'Remembers the reformation'?”

Castiel looks pensive for a moment. “Yes. They were interesting times for Christianity. Martin Luther was a fascinating man; I watched his actions closely. I was present for the evolution of human kind, the birth of Christ and the 100-years war. I have met Gabriel, Raphael, Michael, and Lucifer, spoken indirectly to God, and have the names of all the prophets – current, future and past – seared into my consciousness. Chuck Shurley was the last; Kevin Tran is the present - however his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

Silence. The woman just stares at him open mouthed.

“I have also commanded a garrison of hundreds of Angels, and I do not think that human students could be much different,” he tries to add helpfully. “I have a sword.”

Three minutes later, he is escorted off-campus by two burley security guards who mutter something inaudible about ‘drugs these days’.


	3. You Brought Me Your Bullets, I Brought You My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean buys Castiel a gun for Christmas. Vague antics ensue. That's pretty much it.

For Christmas, Dean buys Castiel a gun.

“It’s the guy’s first Christmas as a human, Dean; we have to do something,” Sam had said the week earlier because he’s stupidly sentimental like that, so Dean had hotwired a pickup and gone tree picking with a chainsaw. Sam had not been impressed. He’d almost ripped Dean a new one, raving about how he was a bad example for Cas. Dean had yelled at him for being implying that Cas was fucking twelve years old and couldn’t make his own judgements. “I took it back!” He’d concluded. “I wouldn’t wanna ruin anyone’s Christmas because they’d had their piece of shit Toyota stolen.”

The gun, however, he’d actually bought himself. With cash, thank you very much. 

“It’s an LWS .32,” he says, watching Castiel pull the pistol from its box. Cas is sitting under the tree, red Santa hat half pulled over his messy hair, carefully contemplating each present he’s given. The gun, so far, has caused him the longest pause.

“It was the first type of gun I ever owned. Got one when I was twelve.” Dean’s uncomfortable now – it’s been almost a minute, and Cas still hasn’t said anything. He swallows. “Dad said that it could be hidden easily.”

Sam moves from the table to the floor beside Cas. “Do you know how to use a gun, Cas?”

Cas turns and just squints up at Sam, face set in his usual, ‘I am a millennia old; what the fuck do you think?’ expression. Dean’s damn glad that someone else is on the receiving end of it for once. 

“We’ll go shootin’ tomorrow anyway, if you want,” he suggests, trying to provoke some sort of verbal reaction out of Cas. Cas turns to look at him then, the edge of his mouth quirking up on a smile - and god he looks ridiculous in that hat. Like one of Santa’s lost elves. The big white pom-pom is even dangling in his eyes, and Dean’s half tempted to tug it out of the way.

“I think I’d like that,” Cas says quietly, and sets the gun aside.

 

The next day, Dean drives himself and Cas to the nearest abandoned patch of open land he could convince Sam to find on Google Maps. He has a bunch of cans in the trunk he collects for stuff like this, and Cas has the box for the gun resting on his lap.

He’d had to convince him not to the wear the Santa hat, though. Half the time Dean’s not sure if Cas is actually socially clueless or just a little shit to spite him.

“We’re here,” Dean announces twenty minutes after they’ve left the bunker, swerving into a gravel car park. Cas sets him with that hard stare and doesn’t comment. They climb out of the Impala and begin the five minute hike in silence, Cas still clutching the box a bit like a mother would hold a crying child, Dean feeling like the tin man as the cans clink together in the bag over his shoulder.

The field is exactly what Dean wanted – a good fifteen miles from any form of civilization with excellent sightlines in to the surrounding forest – and they reach it in the five minutes he expected it would take to push through the shrubbery.

“Okay, Cas,” he begins, “I’m gonna set up a can a good few yards away, and you’ve got to aim for it.”

“Yes,” Cas says, pulling the gun from its box and flicking off the safety latch. Dean had demonstrated how to load it with the tiny bullets the night before, pointing out the various parts of the gun and how they worked, ignoring Castiel’s protests of, “I know, Dean. I watched them invent the fucking things.” Dean had almost told him to go and wash his mouth out with soap and water by the end – Cas’s language had been that bad. Who knew an ex-angel of the lord could be so creative with a language that wasn’t even his own.

Dean drops four cans, about five yards between each, and runs back to Cas.

“Go for it,” Dean says once he’s standing safely beside the ex-angel. Cas shoots. He clearly isn’t expecting the recoil; his arm twitches back and the shot goes wide, bullet burying itself in the grass a good ten yards away from it’s intended mark.

“Little bitch,” he says, frowning at the gun. Dean laughs and steps up into Cas’s personal space. 

“The gun is an extension of your wrist, Cas,” Dean says, his own arm sliding up Cas’s to hold the gun steady. He feels Cas shiver as he presses up tight against Cas’s back, steadying him. Their faces are side-by-side now, gun raised so they can both look down the sight, and Dean can feel Cas’s stubble press against his cheek. “It’s part of you, not an alien appendage. Don’t treat it as one.”

“You’re an awful teacher,” Cas moans, trying to press his ass up into Dean’s groin. “Or maybe too good – I’m not sure yet.”

Dean chuckles, canting his hips to the side. “Concentrate. We’re gonna do this right, and you’re gonna make this shot.” He makes sure Cas is looking down the barrel, bracing his arm to take most of the impact, and he squeezes the trigger.

Cas chooses that exact moment, however, to twist his head around until he can press his wet lips against the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean starts, yelping, his arm faltering, the bullet flying off in the direction of the trees. He pulls away from Cas to see that the other fallen angel has got the biggest shit-eating grin ever plastered across his gorgeous face.

“You little shit,” Dean yells. “You fucking little fucker. You knew the entire time, didn’t you? You were leading me on, you massive dick.” 

Cas lazily fires off four shots, easily hitting each of the cans dead center like he spends his free time shooting bullets. He turns back around and sets that penetrating blue gaze back on Dean. “You’re immensely attractive when you’re handling a firearm, Dean. Also when you’re instructing me. I couldn’t help myself.”

Dean just glares. Cas glances back down at the pistol. “We have guns in heaven. They’re just much more… fancy than this. This is a nice one, however. Thank you. It will be useful.” He purses his lips, clicking the safety back in to place. “Although I did always did prefer swords.”

Dean swallows whatever further words Cas might say with his own mouth. “You’re going to pay for this,” he mumbles between kisses, and Cas just hums appreciatively underneath Dean’s lips and hands and breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm clearly terrible at keeping word limits. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Title taken from My Chemical Romance's album of the same name. I don't even care; I was totally a punk rock/goth/emo kid in my (early) teens. Long live nostalgia.


	4. Seeing Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This is how the blind sometimes read faces,” Cas whispers against Dean’s fingers._

“Close your eyes,” Cas says, kneeling on the bed in front of Dean, head tilted towards the ceiling. He looks almost as if he’s in prayer. Dean complies, folding easily into Cas’s personal space as his eyelids flicker shut. Then there are are pressure points against his wrists as his hands are guided upwards. “Now touch me.”

He starts with Cas’s hair, the soft strands sliding easily through his fingers. Cas feels the fingertips trail down, down, balancing over the delicate structure of his cheekbones, tracing the dip of his brow, the bridge of his nose, dancing along his eyelids, skittering along the edge of his well defined jawline. Each place Dean touches tingles with the absence of his fingertips.

Cas’s skin is hot and velvety under Dean’s hands, stubble rough but not unpleasant as it grazes his palm. Breaths are shared as Dean leans further into Cas, desperate to edge closer as his thumb hooks under the bolt of Cas’s jaw. Cas’s mouth stretches into a grin under his pinkies. He smells like cinnamon and coffee and earth, sweet and slightly spicy. Dean can almost taste it on the air as he inhales open-mouthed. 

“This is how the blind sometimes read faces,” Cas whispers against Dean’s fingers. “I read about it in a book.” 

“I like it,” Dean says, fingers moving to graze Cas’s lips. They ghost across, electric. He sucks one into his mouth and lets the wet heat enclose the pad, humming around the length and caressing it gently with his tongue. Exhaled air rushes over Dean’s skin and he moans. Every other sense becomes overloaded without sight, a rush of sound and taste and touch and smell. It’s heady and rich, the rustle of Cas’s breaths, the dull beat of his pulse under skin, the feel of his bones. It makes Dean feel alive, perceptive in a way he hasn’t been before.

Soon it becomes too much, and Dean presses his mouth against Cas’s, palms sliding down Cas’s body and over the smooth planes of his chest, his stomach, tongue licking at the seam of Cas’s lips.

“Sometimes I think we lose the small parts to the bigger picture,” Cas mumbles between kisses.

They make love with their eyes closed that night, the salt-skin taste of sweat lingering over their tongues, skin prickling and sounds blending as they write poetry with their bodies. The sensations are lyrical, almost, as they ride the highs together as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idea taken from Brian Caswell's book, The Full Story.


	5. Just Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I know you like plenty of things - humanity, God, honey and bees, saving unhappy dogs, White Castle cheeseburgers - but I don't know what you want. Liking and wanting are two different things, Cas. Liking something means you appreciate it; wanting something is making it your own."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://ladyofthesilent.tumblr.com/post/48419610503/in-my-opinion-the-words-i-like-do-not-mark-a) on tumblr. Title taken from Telepopmusik's song _Breathe_.

"What do you want, Cas?"

"I..." Castiel looks away, brow furrowed, hands tangled in his lap. Dean is seated opposite him, cross legged and leaning forward into Castiel's personal space. They're both perched on the foot of the bed in Dean's bedroom, Sam having disappeared to his own room minutes before, and it's the first moment they've had alone in far too long. "I want... no, I like..." He feels as if he's choking on the words; they're thick and heavy as they collect in his throat and over his tongue. "I like..." 

The room smells strongly of Dean, leather and spice and earth and sweat, and Castiel is finding it difficult to concentrate. 

"No, Cas," Dean interrupts. "I'm asking what you want."

"Oh," says Cas, shifting his gaze until he's squinting at Dean's chest.

"I know you like plenty of things - humanity, God, honey and bees, saving unhappy dogs, White Castle cheeseburgers - but I don't know what you want. Liking and wanting are two different things, Cas. Liking something means you appreciate it; wanting something is making it your own."

Silence. Castiel can hear Dean breathe, the repetitious rush of air in and out of his lungs. Can feel the heat emanating off him. Can see the constellations of freckles collecting over the fine grain of his skin. He wonders what the sensation of Dean's lips pressed against his would feel like, those hands working their way in to his hair, bottle-green eyes blown black with lust as his pupils dilated.

Castiel could state the chemical equation for the reaction occurring in his brain right now, draw his feelings back to the safety of science, but he knows it wouldn't change anything. Not now.

"I thought I wanted... freedom," he says slowly, as if tasting the feel of the words before they leave his mouth. "Freedom for me. Freedom and free will for angels. Beyond what I'd been told I should want, I believed that was the first thing I desired for myself."

Dean watches him carefully, eyes never leaving his face. It gives Castiel the courage to continue. He exhales.

"I was wrong, however. Though I still want freedom, I still want a more liberal Heaven, there's something I covet - something I want - more than anything else I could conceive."

"Please tell me," Dean murmurs when Castiel pauses again. "I want to give you something. Anything. You've given me so much, Cas. What I want is to thank you."

Castiel moves his hands until they're clasped loosely around Dean's. Dean doesn't pull away. Castiel peers with narrowed eyes through his lashes, squinting at Dean's face, head tilted like a curious puppy as he catalogues the muscles working under the epidermis to produce Dean's current expression. Something in the set of Dean's brow gives him confidence, and before he can stop himself, the word has trickled from between his teeth.

"You."

It comes in a whisper; a puff of air against Dean's cheek. The loaded syllable feels like a bullet shooting from the barrel of his mouth.

"I want... you, Dean." His gaze shifts upwards to meet Dean's, skin tingling hot and too tight. Something warm and wonderful shoots between them. Dean's fingers tense against his own, and the muscles around his lips tighten. "I want things beyond you, but the only thing that you can give me, right now, is yourself."

Dean is everywhere, then. Broad hands are cupping Castiel's jaw and there's a warm, wet pressure against his lips and his brain whites out for just a moment. Then he's back in Dean's bedroom, arms filled with another body as it moves against his, fingertips touching him like he's fragile, precious - worth something. It hurts. It overwhelms. It makes him truly understand want as Dean kisses I love you, too against the seam of his mouth.


	6. To Bee (corny pun time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds the perfect ring for Cas in a $2 bin at Wal-Mart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not American, so I just picked Wal-Mart because I know they sell a lot of things (when I was in the states, I never made it to any of the stores). Inspired by an exchange with one of my friends. Thank you to angelwingsandgunfire on tumblr for beta-ing it for me, since my usual beta actually sleeps (unlike me).

It’s this tacky little bee that wraps around your finger to form a ring in a $2 bin at Wal-Mart, cast in banana yellow and jet black, and it’s quite possibly one of the most god-awful toys Dean has ever seen.

It’s perfect.

He pulls it from the box and thrusts it at Cas, balancing it on the flat of his palm as he shoves it in to Cas’s personal space.

“Marry me?”

Cas just gives him this long-suffering sidelong glance, like you’re fucking crazy, and doesn’t even laugh. He simply ignores the proposal and walks off in the direction of the clothing department.

“Hey, Cas. Way to break a man’s heart.”

Cas huffs and approaches the racks of sweater vests. He’s apparently developed a thing for them, and regardless of Dean’s protests and idle threats of refusing to sleep with Cas if he keeps wearing them, every time they visit a clothing store, the fallen angel insists on buying a new one. It’s driving Dean nuts.

“Do you think this blue argyle pattern suits my eyes, Dean?” He pulls out a knitted purple and turquoise monstrosity and holds it against his face. Dean mutters something unintelligible about how it would ‘suit him better if it was on the bedroom floor’. Cas just rolls his eyes and hangs the item of clothing over his arm.

“Seriously, though, Cas,” Dean starts again, fingering the piece of plastic in his pocket. “The quality and price of a ring shouldn’t matter. You just totally ignored my feeling back there.”

“Do you want to get married, Dean?” Suddenly Cas is all up in Dean’s personal space, intensely studying his expression, the scrutinizing effect somewhat marred by the fact there’s something woollen pricking Dean’s arm. 

“Er,” Dean hesitates, caught off guard. Having Cas pressed so close to his body hindering his ability to think clearly.

“Just what I thought,” Cas says, and backs away. 

Dean opens in a small ‘O’. “I just find the concept of marriage stupid,” he says. “If you really love each other, why do you need to prove it to anyone? Why care?” 

“To allow God the opportunity to witness your union?” Cas reaches out to touch a black vest, checking the quality of the wool. “Tax benefits?” He tugs it off the rack. “So I can be present at your bedside when you die?”

That last point causes Dean pause. “But, Cas, it’s not like we pay taxes. Or that you actually exist as a person on any databases, anyway.”

That was clearly the wrong thing for Dean to say, because Cas is now glaring absolute daggers at him, as opposed to calmly contemplating the vest like he was moments before. “No,” he growls. “But I exist to you. That’s what matters.” 

Dean suddenly gets it. “It’s assurance for you, isn’t it? You’re still worried that I’ll ditch you to settle down with some nice chick and have 2.5 kids and a picket fence in the ‘burbs like I’m Preston fucking Tucker? “

Cas deflates, looking at his shoes. “Dean.”

“I’m not ‘The Man and His Dream’, Cas.” To prove his point, Dean takes the ring and one of Cas’s hands and presses the piece of plastic down Cas’s ring finger. Cas is now standing in the middle of Wal-Mart, draped in multi-coloured sweater vests like a goddamn eighty year old, regarding this little plastic bee on his finger like it’s one of the most amazing things he’s ever seen. 

It’s totally a chick flick moment, and Dean is starting to feel uncomfortable. 

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, looking up at Dean. He looks adorable and so fucking happy that it makes Dean’s heart swell, discomfort evaporating immediately. 

“I’ll get you something better,” Dean says gruffly. “But no more vests, you hear me?” 

Cas just grins like the cat that got the cream as Dean tugs him over to the cash register to pay for the stupid thing.

Dean’s not sure if he just made the best or worst decision of his life between the isle of cotton shirts and woollen apparel in a Wal-Mart in Ohio. The answer is clear, though, when he looks at Cas’s shining face.

Definitely the best $2 investment Dean has ever made.


	7. Sleep Tight (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the new promo, but really by this gifset ([x](http://casacastiel.tumblr.com/post/49267533445/supernatural-8x21-chch-promo-x)). Title taken from the Death Cab For Cutie song of the same name.

There's a figure lying in the centre of the road.

Dean's headlights catch the body as he and Sam speed down the highway towards the bunker, a flash of dirty tan material and a wide-eyed face illuminated by the bright beams. Time freezes for a moment, reality bubble-wrapped and sticky and slow, before everything snaps back to place and Sam's yelling, "Deanfuckthat's-"

Dean knows. Knows before Sam's even opened his mouth. It's that sick instinct feeling low in his gut, energy thrumming against the trip-wire of his nerves.

He pulls the wheel sharply to the right.

There's the screech of breaks, a flash of light; the impala skids and fishtails off the road into the muddy ditch beside it. Sam's yelling. The engine groans in protest. There's a sharp ringing in Dean's ears that won't stop. Everything feels distant, disconnected, as if he's actions aren't his own.

The car breaks through a fence and jerks to a stop a good few yards from the edge of the road.

Dean doesn't clearly recollect his actions from there. He remembers breathing deeply, trying to collect himself and his thoughts. He checks that he and Sam are mostly okay, no serious injuries, just whiplash from breaking so hard and a dull ache from where the seatbelt a cut in to their chests. 

Then Dean is pushing out of the car, not bothering to check the damage done, and pounds towards road.

"Cas!" he yells in to the darkness. The moon is a heavy orb low in the sky, protected by wispy clouds. Milky light refracts awkwardly off the landscape. The world is fuzzy and too bright as he stumbles up in a half-jog up to the bitumen, Sam breathing heavily behind him.

There's a whimper, a slurred response. Dean reaches the road to see the figure shift, curling in on itself, a smudge of brown against the black expanse. He runs faster, then, ignoring Sam's warning about traffic.

It's definitely Cas. He can see the unkempt hair, blood smeared across that familiar, dirty tattered trench coat. Shock settles against his bones as he falls to the ground next to the crumpled body.

"Cas?" he whispers tentatively, peering at Cas's face. Cas groans.

"You... should really obey speed limits," he hisses through clenched teeth. Dean laughs in relief, tension easing out of his body with each chuckle.

"I'm gonna pick you up, okay? We can't sit here. Cars might come." Dean pauses, eyes raking over Cas's body, trying to asses for potential damage. "You're okay to be moved, right?"

Cas makes an noise that Dean takes as affirmation. 

"Okay. In three. One, two..." he eases his arms behind Cas's back and under his legs and pulls, staggering to his feet. Cas's eyes roll in to the back of his head in pain. Dean takes a tentative step forward, wondering if perhaps he should have got Sam to drive the car up before he'd moved the angel.

"I'm not a fucking d-damsel in distress, Dean," Cas grits out, voice weak and rasping. "And I'm leaking blood all over your clothes. Get us off... off this goddamn road."

Dean grins and calls to Sam to 'get the car here asap - keys are still in the ignition'. Sam complies, running back towards the car. Dean makes it to the edge of the road and braces himself against Cas's weight. 

"Can you stand?"

For all Cas's bravado, Dean knows that he's seriously injured. Cas's eyes are glassy and the front of his suit is wet with crimson blood. His breathing is shallow, too, as if each breath is agonising.

"I... don't know," he answers honestly, quietly, and Dean just nods, wishing he had an extra arm so he could sweep the hair of Cas's forehead. He wants to press his mouth against the salted furrows of Cas's brow. He wants to try and kiss the pain away.

"What are you doing here?" Dean murmurs. Dean hasn't seen Cas since the crypt, since Naomi and I need you.

"Shouldn't that have been your first question?" Cas coughs, wincing. "Wrong trajectory. I... I couldn't make it to..." his voice fades out. 

"It's okay," Dean whispers, gazing at Cas's face. "Answers are for later."

His baby's engine rumbles to a start and Sam manoeuvres the car back to the side of the road. It idles as Sam gets out to open one of the back doors for Dean, and Dean gently eases Cas on to the back seat before rounding the car so he can sit on the other side.

"Get us home, Sammy, quickly," Dean says, shifting until he's pressed up against Cas's side. Cas is clearly unconscious now, reminding Dean of a broken bird as his coattails fan out over the seat.

Anxiety and panic flood through Dean's system. He takes the liberty of wrapping Cas's fingers in his own and pressing his lips against the (fallen?) angel's temple when Sam isn't looking. 

"You'll be okay, Cas. You have to be," Dean says. "I need you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this clearly isn't what will happen in the episode, but we can hope, right? I sort of have a part two planned for this, but we'll see.


	8. Sleep Tight (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the events at the end of 8x21.

The Impala’s engine is a comforting thrum against Dean’s body as Sam speeds towards home, the road beneath them a too-long glittery expanse of black stretching into the night. He can taste salt on his lips as sweat trickles from his temples. His hands are sticky with Cas’s blood.

Dean’s managed to stop most of the bleeding by tearing his undershirt in to long ribbons, which he proceeds to pack the wound with to stem the bleeding. The rest he wraps gingerly around Castiel’s abdomen. Sam watches in the review mirror, brow tight with concern.

“He’s an angel, Dean. Surely he’ll heal fast enough on his own?”

“Just drive, Sammy,” Dean mutters, using a bloodied hand to sweep the hair back from Castiel’s forehead. The car stinks of fresh blood, sweet and metallic like rust after rain, and Dean knows that it will take days to properly clean the upholstery. He doesn’t even care.

As soon as they reach the bunker, Dean carries Castiel through to his room.

Sam makes no comment and just slouches in afterwards.

Not really in a fit enough state to offer help, he leans awkwardly against the doorframe to Dean’s room, watching. Dean pulls a pair of scissors from the draw beside his bed and proceeds to cut through the dirty material.

“Can you get some dental floss, a needle and maybe a bottle of whiskey?” Dean says, pulling away the folds of Cas’s clothing to expose crimson-smeared skin. “Need to get Bella Swan here fixed up before the Word of God-Squad get here.”

“Did you just… make a Twilight reference?” Sam slurs. He realises that, despite the jokes, Dean is not okay; his shoulders are rigid, hunched, and his right hand is trembling slightly where he holds the scissors against Cas’s now-red shirt.

“Not the time, Sam,” Dean snaps as he eases off the jacket and shirt. The tie comes next; the trench coat was left in the car. Sam rolls his eyes and moves off slowly towards his bedroom.

Dean finishes removing the top half of Cas’s clothing, unsure whether or not he should remove Cas’s dress pants. Metatron and Kevin will be here, soon; they’re flying in. Dean refused a ‘lift’, of course, and Sam was too stubborn to travel separately from Dean, despite his quickly deteriorating condition.

If he doesn’t remove the pants, though, he won’t be able to stitch the wound properly. Decision made.

“So help me God,” he mutters. If Cas doesn’t wear fucking underwear… The belt slides out easily. Pants unzipped quickly. He has them halfway down Cas’s legs, trying to ignore the tighty whities, when he feels the strange sensation that he’s being watched; prickles against the back of his neck.

“When I asked for help, Dean,” Cas grumbles above him, “This was not what I had in mind.”

Dean startles, looking up, hands slipping on the trousers. Cas’s intense blue stare rakes across Dean’s face. Dean freezes; having the angel back with him, feeling Cas’s muscles shift beneath his palms, watching the colour of a Kansas summer sky play across Cas’s irises, is borderline too much. It’s like drinking after days without water.

“Cas,” Dean rasps, mouth suddenly dry. He clears his throat. “Are you, uh…”

“Okay?” Cas says as he pulls his gaze from Dean’s, eyes sweeping the room. The spell cast between them breaks in to tiny, irreparable fragments as Dean pulls his hands from Cas’s legs. “I’ll live. I don’t know about this comforter, though. Is this your room?”

Dean lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I hope you don’t mind. Bit short on beds.”

“I see,” Cas says, drawing his gaze back to Dean, who is still straddling his legs. Dean quickly shifts across to the other side of the bed and runs a hand self-consciously through his hair.

“It’s um, good to see you,” Dean mumbles, the words I need you building in a slow hum against his ears. Cas doesn’t reply; just blinks slowly. “How did you end up on the road?”

“Wrong trajectory, as I said. I didn’t have the ‘juice’ to get all the way here.”

“Right,” Dean says. “And uh, the blood?”

Cas huffs irritably. “Crowley found the angel tablet.”

“Inside you?”

“Yes, Dean; I inserted the angel tablet inside my lower abdomen between the lining of my intestine and –“

“Woah, you can stop there.” Dean holds up his palms in surrender. “So you like, ate the fucking angel tablet?”

Cas frowns. “No, Dean, I-“

“Yeah yeah, same concept,” Dean interrupts. “But what about the healing process?”

“You’re not more concerned about the tablet?” Cas cocks his head, fingers picking at the makeshift bandages around his middle.

“You were bleeding out over my comforter a few minutes ago!” Dean exclaims. Cas hums contemplatively. Dean just sighs and removes himself from the bed. He watches Cas unpack the wound to inspect the damage, blood only a slow trickle now, Cas flinching only slightly at the pain.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re as bad as Sam.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and squeezes his eyes shut against the pressure. “And Crowley can’t do shit with the tablet. We have Kevin.” Dean doesn’t mention Metatron, at this stage, figuring that it would be too much for Cas. Instead he walks to the doorway and points out in to the hall. “I’m just going to check on Sam. Call out if you need anything; I’ll hear you.”

Cas tries to protest, “But, the tablet-“ as Dean leaves the room. He ignore Cas’s cries in favour of walking down the hallway in to Sam’s room. Of course his bother is curled up on the bed, dental floss and the bottle of whiskey caught under his arm. Dean checks Sam’s temperature and spreads a blanket over his sleeping form.

 

Ten minutes later, he returns to Cas, two mugs of steaming hot chocolate held in his hands. Cas is staring idly at the ceiling, but tries to prop himself up when Dean enters the room, wincing slightly. The skin around the edges of the wound has turned pinkish in colour, new skin starting to knit already. Dean hands one of the mugs to Cas.

“What is it?” Cas asks, eyeing the brown liquid carefully.

“Liquid Heaven, and the only way to make it,” Dean nods at the mug. “Chocolate powder, a dash of cinnamon and some cayenne pepper, topped off with a tiny bit of water and some warm milk. Comfort drink. Try it.”

“I acquired a taste for coffee whilst on the run. Black, like you usually take yours.” Cas takes a tentative sip. His lips twist in to a tiny smile as he looks across at Dean. “This is good.” He pauses. “I’m not sure what to do now, though. I have so much to tell you, Dean. And…”

Dean kicks his shoes off and lies on the bed beside Cas, feeling the angel’s warmth bleed in to his side. Cas has always burned hotter than a human.

“Start from after Purgatory, Cas,” Dean whispers in to his mug, taking another gulp. “There’s no need to run any more. You’re home now. We can get through this together, no more of this saving-the-world-alone, hero complex bullshit, you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Cas’s grin stretches even wider and Dean feels something break inside him at the site of the angel stretched out on his bed, a cup in hand, looking like he belongs somewhere, finally.


	9. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small drabbles written about Dean's sexual partners throughout his life, stitched together by interludes about Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of porny but not really. It works here better in this collection than it would as a standalone. I won't tag for Dean/OC or Dean/Lisa because they're not what the piece is about - it's ultimately Dean/Cas.

I’m fifteen years old with the world stretching before me like an uninterrupted argument, life barely tainted by the metallic tang of disappointment (in life, in others, in oneself) that seeps through one’s psyche like blood dripping through veins. His hand pushes roughly down my pants, blindly groping at my pubic hair as I gasp against the palm covering my mouth. I’m up against a wall, t-shirt ripped and half pulled off my skinny frame, pelvis jerking against his body. A raw sob escapes my throat, half pleasure, half pain, and the fingers covering my mouth fist themselves into my hair. “You’re mine, Dean,” he snarls in my ear, and I let him drag my climax out of me in slow, agonising pulses. His hand is covered in me as be pushes me to the floor and thrusts his cock into my mouth. I swallow back the bitter taste of his precum and -

_In my mind now, all I can see is eyes the colour of a clear summer sky, hair the hue of coffee as it trickles against my fingertips like ink; Cas. And-_

I’m eighteen and volatile, snorting lines of coke off her naked breasts. She giggles at the sensation, pulling me up until my body blankets hers, her hands tangling themselves in my hair. My fingers stutter against her ribcage and my gaze travels up to her mouth, her lips a pink puckered bruise smudged across acres of unblemished skin. They mould against mine, sweet and wet and glorious as our tongues roll together, and I’m lost in the sensation and taste of her, candied sweets and gardenias, as she sighs against my cheek, “Dean. Tell me you’ll always be mine…” and -

_His skin is golden underneath my palms and he smells like ozone and the earth after rain and -_

I’m twenty and broken. He tastes like cigarette smoke and coffee, sweet and sour and slightly bitter. Smells like sweat and danger. I lose all trains of thought as his teeth bite violet and indigo flowers across my collarbone, hands dancing down my spine. He holds me like I’m delicate, like I could break at any moment, but he touches me with a body aching with desire. It’s rough and gritty and makes me feel alive, even as he lowers me to the filthy mattress and I hear the crackle of a condom packet. “I’ll brand you like you’re mine, boy,” he whispers against my ear, palming a fifty into my hand. I whimper like a fucking twelve year old and –

_He whispers my name against my ear; the broken syllable huffed like a secret. I never liked the way it sounded, tasted, until he breathed it in to my mouth and pressed it against my skin and-_

I’m thirty-two and ordinary, living the mediocrity in the middle of suburbia with a fucking picket fence. We move together in frightening unison, our bodies a familiar landscape to one another, the silence conveying more than words could. The sex is repetitive, the conversation between our mouths and our minds and our bodies dry and grating. As I shudder against her, she begins to cry big ugly quiet tears that splash in to the chasm between our naked forms. “Dean – I - I wish I could keep you as mine…” Lisa murmurs wetly against my neck and –

>I suck heart-shaped bruises against his neck as he arches against me; bruises I hope won’t fade come morning like I hope he won’t fade from my life and- __

I’m thirty-three and unattached, belonging nowhere and to no one. My body curls around his like a question mark, the long, languid line of us an incongruous query. Winter sunlight, washed out and weak, struggles through the grimy windowpane, Manhattan a dull blur as the city grinds through another day. He draws patterns across my chest with his fingertips. I huff small breaths into his hair as they curl like ink-stains across his forehead. “You’re your own person, Dean,” he chuckles into the empty air, dust motes trailing in the wake of his exhale. “I doubt you’ll ever be anyone’s in any capacity because-“ but I silence his lips with mine as the dull sound of suction echoes around us and-

_I love him so much it fucking hurts and I don’t know how to cope with this overwhelming sense of emotion so I close my eyes against his gaze as our bodies stutter together in the milky light and -_

I’m thirty-five and alone, stretched across a motel bed as the nameless girl beside me sucks my cock lazily into the heat of her mouth. It’s vile and cheap; I feel worse than I did before the sex as she licks me clean - something shrivelling and dying inside me with each press of her tongue - until I ache with a feeling unknown. I press the cash into her palm and she re-buttons her shirt, the mesmerising orbit of her hips the last thing I remember as I slip into a dreamless slumber and – 

I’m thirty-six and tired, so fucking tired, my memories a relentless movie reel in my mind as I struggle through the days, waiting to die with each drag on a cigarette that chisels off a further eleven minutes of wasted life. But he’s quiet and intense and a splash of warmth in the cold wastes of my future, full cock-sucking lips and innocent baby blues. My best friend. He reminds me of fifteen year old me losing my virginity in a parking lot, and he gazes up at me with wonder as our bodies slide together in the dead light of morning. I try to remember what being so oblivious was like, life still filled with chance and possibility, but I come up with naught and instead press kisses against his inner thigh. “You’re mine, Castiel,” I mouth against his skin, and I want to carve the words into his bones and etch them into each of his heartbeats because I’m thirty-six and finally think I’ve found my salvation in the arms of a fallen angel who looks at me like I’m the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the Red Hot Chili Peppers song of the same name.


	10. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We're all a tiny bit broken, Cas,” Dean says, watching the way the strands of hair trickle through his fingers._

> _“Even when Dean rebuilt her from the ground up, he made sure all these little things stayed, ‘cause it’s the blemishes that make her beautiful.”_

 

No individual is truly ‘complete’.  

As Augusten Burroughs writes, "I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions."

When you break a bone, calcium wraps around the knitting carbon to create a structure stronger than before, reinforcing the fissure. Improving it.

The Japanese have this concept where they fix broken pottery with gold or silver and call it ‘Kintsukroi’, the art of repairing something to make it more beautiful. 

Dean tells Cas these things as they’re lying on his bed. The angel is curled up against Dean’s side, head on resting his chest. Cas is recalling his conversation with Naomi, voice smoke and gravel as it rises and falls with the melody of his words, lips pressed to the sensitive part of Dean’s neck. Dean’s fingers card through the wisps of dark chestnut hair that cover Cas’s head as he talks, trying to soothe him. 

"We're all a tiny bit broken, Cas,” Dean says, watching the way the strands of hair trickle through his fingers. It reminds Dean of a conversation they had a while back _, 'no one cares if you’re broken'_ , and Dean thinks it might be one of the most untrue statements he’s ever made. "It's the tragedy of the human condition." 

Cas doesn’t respond immediately. He exhales, shifting his head until he's looking up at Dean, a pair of startling blue eyes behind a shock of disheveled hair. "I'm not human," he says.

"No, but the crack is your humanity – your heart - trying to fight its way through. You’re not _wrong_ , Cas. You’re different.”

Cas huffs, looking irritated. “That’s not a compliment to an angel, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

Cas has been a grumpy little shit since he came to the bunker. He’s borderline unpleasant in the mornings until he’s had a coffee or three (black like Dean takes his, no sugar), he hogs all the blankets, invades Dean’s personal space with his octopus limbs on the nights he does attempt sleep, and is downright demanding in when it comes to attention. He refuses to do the dishes or the laundry, doesn’t want to help care for Sam, won’t eat anything that isn’t a sandwich or a burger, and follows Dean around like a little lost puppy when they don’t have a case. So far Dean’s tried to send him to the supermarket for groceries, but all Cas returned with was a six-pack of beer, more coffee beans and the wrong sort of potatoes. He’s every bit the worst kind of child.

“I’m not tryin’ to be complimentary. Compliments are hollow.” Dean rubs his face with his hand and rolls on to his side so he can see Cas’s face.

“Your flaws are what make you. Perfection is irritating as all hell – just look at the rest of the friggin’ God Squad. Without your faults, you wouldn’t have rebelled against Heaven and stopped the apocalypse twice and saved Sam and me all those times. You might’ve come off with a crack, Cas, but you turned it in to something better." 

Cas frowns. “You need to heed your own words,” he says, face twisting in to something more serious than dull-eyed and sleep-warm. “But, Dean, what if I don’t… like what I’ve become?”

Dean looks away, glancing up at the collection of weapons he has above his bed. There lies the makeshift axe from Purgatory he can’t part with, despite the fact that its blade is still encrusted with dried blood, because it reminds him of all the important things the place taught him. “I’m not exactly the best person to ask that, Cas.” He sighs. “Look, start with the small things and build up. Pick the smallest thing about yourself you _don’t_ like and change that. Work from there. I dunno. I’m trying. Small steps. Work from the bottom up, and don’t rely on other people’s love to complete you. Otherwise you just remain the same bag of problems and you’ll never heal.”

Cas looks contemplative, his brow crinkling into small furrows as he squints at Dean. “I think I understand.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m starved.” Dean rolls off the bed and stretches, arms reaching in to the air above his head. Before he can anticipate it, though, Cas it tugging on his t-shirt and pulling him back on to the comforter, and he suddenly has a mouthful and armful of angel. Cas is nothing if not enthusiastic. He may lack experience, but he’s had millennia to watch the earth and knows exactly how to bite Dean’s lip the way he likes. Dean’s underneath Cas in no time as Cas’s hands work their way up Dean’s stomach, stroking at the trail of hair that covers his small belly. 

“Woah there, Casanova,” Dean laughs.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers against the shell of Dean’s ear. “You’re my family now. You make me want to be better.” There’s a pause; Dean whimpers. Cas mouths at the bolt of Dean’s jaw before he pulls away and regards Dean very carefully. “Can we have burgers again for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the Imagine Dragons song of the same name.


	11. You Stole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x22 Coda. Inb4 Finale destroys all headcanons. Sam locks Dean and Cas in the Bunker's dungeon so they have the opportunity to discuss 'feelings', etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, posted to Tumblr first. Title taken from the Brand New song of the same name.

Dean and Cas are glaring daggers at each other resolutely across the table when Sam finally reaches his breaking point.

They've spent the last hour either firing off snappy retorts or pointedly ignoring each other, and Sam wants to scream. The little shits are as stubborn as old mules. They’ve been dancing across glass for far too long, dodging conversations that desperately need to be had, and Sam knows of only one way that this can be managed.

"Come with me, both of you," he says finally, rising from his chair, "I want to show you something." He gestures down the hall. Dean and Cas both startle, Sam's voice pulling them from their reveries, and tentatively stand.

“What is it, Sammy? You found something in those notes?" Dean says, hurriedly stepping forward to keep up. Castiel follows patiently behind.

"Not... exactly," Sam says, leading them both towards the dungeon.

Neither seems to clue on until Sam's pushing them both inside, key in hand.

"You're staying in here until you two both sort... Whatever it is out," Sam mutters, rolling his eyes. "The unresolved tension - sexual and otherwise - is thick enough to cut with a fucking knife and I'm tired of it."

Dean and Cas peer up at him with twin sets of shocked eyes, and Sam just frowns and slams the door shut. 

Well.

Silence stretches between Dean and Cas, uncomfortable and grating. Sam was right - the tension hangs so thickly it's almost a miasma clouding above their heads, sticking against every word that is and isn't said. Cas stands by the door, looking dejected; shoulders slumped in that ridiculous coat with his huge baby blues trained on Dean. Dean refuses to look at him; instead he walks to the back of the dungeon and begins to inspect the handcuffs bolted to the wall. 

"Look, Dean..." Cas begins, moving in to Dean’s personal space.

“No,” Dean says, stepping aside, moving back in to the open space in the center of the room. It’s cold in here; he can see his breath collect on the air in front of him with every exhale.

“So we’re to stand in here, for however long, without talking?” Cas says, and Dean swears he can detect an edge of sarcasm.

“Pretty much.” Dean drops to the floor and makes a show of pretending to get comfortable. Cas rolls his eyes and huffs. “Or you could, you know, angel-mojo us out of here, or something.”

Cas looks pained for a moment. “I can’t. Sam warded the door.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath. Cas proceeds to sit down, pressing close to Dean, coattails fanning out behind him.

More silence.

“Well, this is fun,” Cas says. He’s definitely being sarcastic this time.

“Don’t blame me.”

“I wasn’t,” Cas says, squinting at him. “This will be a long, tedious period of time for you if we don’t communicate, however. I’ve been watching over the earth for centuries. Time is a very different concept for me.” He gazes down at his hands before holding them in front of his face, studying them. “Granted, I’ve never had a physical body.”

Cas turns the full force of his cerulean gaze back on Dean, heavy with implication. Dean looks irritated. Cas reaches out as if to touch Dean’s shoulder, arm suspended in the air halfway like an unanswered question, and Dean flinches away. Cas’s hand drops back to his lap, a conflicted look playing across his strong features. “I’m sorry about the pie. I’m still sorry for… everything.”

Dean laughs humourlessly. Suddenly the words are fighting their way through his lips, and he just can’t stop them. “D’you even know what you’re apologising for? What everything is? You left me, Cas. I told you I needed you, and you left me. Twice.”

Cas’s eyes widen like a puppy who thinks it’s about to be struck. Dean sighs and rubs a hand across his face, covering his eyes.

“You had a choice; you could have picked me. But you didn’t. Instead you flew off in to the great beyond because you didn’t fucking trust me, after I’ve trusted you with everything, multiple times, even made excuses for you, and all you’ve done is break that trust. Yet here I am, still trusting you, and I don’t know why.” Dean pauses; takes a breath. He’s trying not to yell. He’s above that. “I even goddamn well prayed to you, Cas. Every night. What the fuck am I doing wrong? Did I not give you enough of a reason to stay? Am I not worth enough to you?”

“Oh.” It’s a small sound, barely a whisper, but it’s there.

“What?” Dean demands, voice husky with scarcely concealed emotion. He still won’t look at Cas.

“I… understand, now, I think.” Cas’s voice sounds like he’s spent his entire life gargling glass and smoking Marlboro Reds, like always, and fucking hurts Dean; a salted blade pressed against his skin. “I assumed you knew.”

“Huh?”

“I um… I…” he pauses as if testing how the words feel against his teeth. “I want to be with you, at all times. I want you. I need you, too.”

The tension immediately leaks out of Dean, the taught lines of his shoulders melting to a slouch. He looks five years younger as he peers across at Cas, green eyes glinting in the soft light. “Promise me you won’t leave me again,” he says weakly. “I can’t keep losing people, Cas. I can’t.”

Cas doesn’t respond for a moment. He looks sad. “You know I can’t promise you that, Dean. I can try, but I have my own life, my own responsibilities. It’s always been this way. It likely always will. I’m an Angel of the Lord; I cannot shirk my duties for a human, not even the righteous man. Even if Heaven is in anarchy.” His mouth quirks in a tiny, grim smile. “What I can promise you, though, is that I will always return, no matter what. You have my word, Dean.”

Dean shifts, adjusting his leg so it’s pressed against Cas’s, and he glances across at the angel. “I’m trying here, Cas. I’m trying to be honest. Can we do this together? No more hero of the fucking hour bullshit?”

“Of course.”

‘I was here; where were you?’ flashes across Dean’s mind. He grimaces.

“It works both ways, though,” Cas continues. “We have to trust each other, to communicate. Uh, as you might say, ‘keep the lines open.’” He reaches out properly this time, grasping Dean’s face; a mirror of his action that day in the crypt. Except this time, they’re on equal footing. Dean isn’t broken and bleeding as a result of Cas, and there is no mind control, no angel tablet; instead they’re both sitting on a cold, hard floor in the middle of an ex-torture chamber, sharing body heat and words. “I need you, too,” Cas repeats. Dean fists his hand in to the folds of Cas’s coat, clutching Cas’s wrist, staring up at him. They remain like this for a few moments, leaning closer, breathing each other’s air, until –

“Hey, guys, you decent in there?” Sam raps on the door. “I hope you’ve either talked or fucked it out by now.” He coughs through the words, keys rattling in the lock. “I’ve found some more info I think you should check out.”

Dean groans, pushing forward until his forehead is pressed against Cas’s. He rests there for a beat, inhaling Cas's scent, like earth and musk and something spicy. “We’re good, Sammy,” Dean yells back, pulling away. He stands and offers Cas his hand, smiling. “I mean that,” he says more quietly, to Cas. “We still have shit to work out, but I think we’re good for now. And thanks for the uh, porn and stuff, by the way. I'm sorry I flipped my shit when you came back. I do appreciate it.” 

Cas grins proudly as he accepts Dean's hand and follows him out of the dungeon.


	12. Lobsterstiel, or, 'liberator of the lobsters'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean are shopping at the grocers when Cas sees a live lobster in a tank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [these](http://crackedchassis.tumblr.com/post/51125411283/okay-but-realistically-why-cant-i-keep-a) [posts](http://thisselfishsmile.tumblr.com/post/51125496200/crackedchassis-okay-but-realistically-why) on tumblr. I blame Chris. I'm not even sorry for this one, either.

It happens in the grocery store.

Dean is trying to find fish for Sam, since the goddamn son of a bitch likes his omega threes - the sort that aren't the transformer - and almost rips Dean a new one every time he returns with beef. He and Cas are standing in the seafood aisle while Dean figures out which type of fish looks the least like it's going to give him food poisoning (so far tuna looks looks like it might win because it looks the most like steak), when Cas says, "Dean, why is there a lobster in a tank? I didn't know they sold pets here."

Dean grunts, too preoccupied with fish to give a damn about Cas's questions. "They're not pets - you buy them live to eat."

Cas makes a small noise of discontent. "That's appalling. How do you eat them?"

"I dunno. They're more Sam's thing. I think you put them in the freezer to put them to sleep before boiling them in a pot of fresh water."

Cas is silent. Dean turns to see him frowning at the tank, brows knitted together in a tight line, his jaw set. Shrugging, Dean selects the fish he wants and asks if he can have half a pound of the stuff. The salesperson is handing it over when Cas says, "I want that lobster."

"I'm not cooking it, Cas," Dean replies, adding the package to his shopping basket.

"I don't mean that," Cas says. "That lobster is a Sebastian. We can't leave it here, so unsuspecting, so alone, for it to just end up as someone's dinner. We have to save it."

Dean knew he shouldn't have let Cas watch The Little Mermaid the week before. "Get off it, Cas. What the fuck are we gonna do with a lobster? C'mon. Help me find the rest of the stuff on the list and we can go home. I'll buy you a hermit crab or something."

Cas just glares at him and huffs. "Not the same thing, Dean."

"Sure it is," Dean says. "They're both crabs and come from the ocean. Anyway, I'm not letting you have a tantrum like a five year old in the grocer, Cas. Stop being a dick." 

When Cas doesn't move, however, Dean just rolls his eyes and walks towards the vegetable displays. Cas will come and find him again in a few once he's gotten over himself.

Two minutes later, though, Dean hears an audible crack. Screams erupt from somewhere behind him, and he turns around to see water leaking in a slow wave across the shop floor. Son of a bitch - what the fuck has the little shit done now?

Dean rounds the aisle to see Cas making his way out the door with his hands caught tightly around the lobster. What the everloving fuck.

Dean hastily heading towards the cashier to pay for the groceries. He drops a fifty on the counter, mutters, "include the lobster", grabs the bag, and hot foots it right out of there.

He doesn't have to look far for Cas, though. The goddamn fallen angel is standing beside the Impala, grin stretching across his face, looking like the cat that not only got the cream but the whole fucking cake, too. Dean can't find it in himself to get angry when Cas looks like that. He wants something, wants to make it his, to nurture and care for it, and that's enough for Dean. Anything to get him out of the dark sulk that hasn't shifted since he fell. If letting him take care of a ridiculous lobster changes that, well.

"His name is Sebastian," Cas says proudly as Dean reaches the car. "And I don't care what you say; I'm keeping him. He can live in the bathtub." The light catches his eyes and his grin falls, serious expression replacing it. "I'll fight you for it, if I have to."

Dean just shakes his head and laughs. "At this stage, taking the stupid thing back would be more harm than it's worth. Gotta get it home quickly, though." He opens the door to the impala and puts the bags inside, climbing in after. "What do they eat, though?" 

Cas clambers in the other side, fingers still wrapped delicately around the red body of the crustacean, which is waving its bound pincers around wildly. He squints across at Dean.

"Fish, I suppose. Do we have any fish sticks?"

"Nope," Dean says, turning the keys in the ignition. "But we have tuna. Looks like Sam won't get his omega threes after all. Not that I'm complaining."

"He's mine," Cas says, a little in awe. 

"Damn right he is." Dean shifts the car in to gear and backs out of the carpark. "Castiel, liberator of the lobsters."

"I like that." Cas smiles down at his prize and strokes its back.


	13. Stop the Fuckin' Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to teach Cas to drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a belated Birthday present for [Ally](http://www.satanwinchester.tumblr.com) because I adore her very much. Title taken from the Circa Survive song of the same name.

“C’mon, Cas. We’re gonna teach you to drive.”

Cas slides his gaze over Dean, sardonic and haughty, before turning back to stare out the window. The landscape outside the car continues to smudge to a world drawn in charcoals and pastels, swirls of colour muted by the dying sunlight.

Cas doesn’t reply.

“You’ve barely left the bunker in weeks, man,” Dean tries again. “Hunting for angels doesn’t count.”

Silence; Cas winds the cassette forward until Robert Plant’s familiar vocals whine through the stereo. Something about words having two meanings, which means the song is Stairway to Heaven. Cas rotates the volume knob until the music fills the car, guitar line high and melodic, the treble twisting against the dull, rhythmic hiss of the drums and bass. It’s a painful cacophony; the sound distorts and blurs into high static the further Cas turns.

Dean pushes Cas’s hand away roughly before hitting the power button, turning the stereo off. He slams his opposite fist against the dash. Cas doesn’t even flinch.

“Answer me, damnit!” Dean shouts. He’s so desperate, so fucking desperate, that he’ll let Cas drive the Impala – can’t Cas see that? “Stop being such a fucking asshole.”

Cas sighs irritably, still refusing to look at Dean. “We didn’t find any today,” he says steadily, casually, like he’s making a statement the weather, “and I don’t want to learn to drive the Impala; I’d be no good at it.” A beat; Cas folds his hands in to his lap. “It’s nothing like flying.”

His tone implies that it’s the end of the conversation.

Dean, however, wants none of the fallen angel’s grumpy bullshit. He jerks the wheel sharply to the right, the car spinning off the road and in to the open paddock beside it, slipping to a halt on the tawny, sun-bleached Kansas grass.

“Out,” Dean barks, switching the engine off. He shoves his door open. Gets out. Rounds the car and stands with his shoulders drawn back next to Cas’s door; Cas just looks out at him with half-lidded eyes, looking bored. 

“No,” he says. He locks his door.

Dean has one up on him, though, and sticks the keys in the lock, unlocking the door and pulling it open in one swift movement. Cas tumbles out in the grass, having had his body weight pushed up against interior panels of the car. Dean hauls his surly ass up and pushes him around the car, bundling him in to the driver’s seat. Cas glares at him as Dean pushes the keys in to his hands.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Dean growls, slamming the door shut before moving back around the car. He eases in to the passenger seat. Cas is already hunched forward, both hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock, keys stuck in the ignition. He twists them as soon as Dean is buckled in, and the engine hums to life. Cas glances over, looking petulant and irate, hair mussed over the tight lines of his face. Dean ignores him.

“So,” he says, leaning over. “Hold the wheel at the goddamn sides, okay? At least at first; it gives you more control.” He adjusts Cas’s hands, sliding them gently around the circle. “Got it?”

Cas nods, watching Dean’s hands on his wrists. Dean pulls away and stares straight ahead. “Now switch the stick to first-“ he shows Cas how to move the gear stick in to first position – “take off the handbrake, and ease down on the pedal.”

Cas does nothing.

“You’re a little shit,” Dean says. This earns him another filthy look. “Keep one foot on the clutch and the other on the accelerator. We’re not getting out of this friggin’ car until you can drive her home.”

Cas responds by pushing his foot down; the car jerks forward a few metres, too fast, and in the next moment the brake is slammed on. “Bit not good,” he mutters.

“Woah there, leadfoot,” Dean exclaims. “More than a bit not good. Go easy on her.”

Cas rolls his eyes and presses the accelerator down easier this time. The Impala glides forward, slowly, riding across a sea of golden blades. The contrast of the light greens and bronze is gorgeous against the deep blue sky, fluffy clouds skimming across as the sun begins to sink below the horizon.

“Now turn,” Dean says, “and change to second.” Cas obeys; the car moves smoothly. He does a few loops of the paddock, leaning forward in his seat, the intense focus he reserves for planning battle strategies and studying Dean concentrated instead on steering the car. Eventually he relaxes in to the motions, however, and pre-empts the change in the motor well. He only stalls three times and eventually stops gripping the wheel with whitened knuckles. Although after fifteen minutes, despite beginning to drive well, he slows the car to a halt.

“This isn’t interesting,” he says. “Or fun. Quite frankly, I believe it is what you’d deem ‘boring’.”

Dean casts his gaze sideways at Cas and frowns. “I don’t care; it’s important you learn.”

“I hate cars,” he continues, as if Dean hasn’t spoken. “I much prefer flying.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Maybe I could learn to ride a motorcycle.”

“I fucking give up,” Dean says, throwing his hands up in the air, surrendering. “This is painful.”

A shit-eating grin twitches across Cas’s mouth as he turns the engine off. A moment of silence stretches between them, tension high, before he’s suddenly climbing across the gap between the seats and straddling Dean’s lap. “I apologise. Much like you don’t enjoy flying, I don’t like driving.”

Dean grunts. “What’s with the tinkerbell act? The sudden mood swings?” He’s trying not to be distracted by Cas’s denim-wrapped thighs pressed against his own. “Becoming a fairy now you’re no longer an angel?”

“No,” he says, bending down to run his lips over the edge of Dean’s jaw. “I thought it might be the best way to distract you. Or ‘shut you up’, as it were.” His hands work their way under Dean’s shirt. “What’s a ‘tinkerbell’, anyway? I don’t have any bells. Nor am I particularly good with machinery.”

“Never mind,” Dean mutters. He feels Cas hum under his palms, which have worked their way to Cas’s back.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Cas breathes in his ear. “I’ll drive you back to the bunker, and will listen to all your all wise instruction, as long as you allow us to copulate in the front seat of your car.”

Dean swallows hard; no words have any right to sound that hot. Who the fuck uses ‘copulate’ these days, anyway? It’s been weeks since he and Cas have had any sexual interaction, even longer since they’ve shared mutual orgasms, and Dean hopes that it might do something to remove the haze of bitterness and anger that has coalesced around Cas since he returned to the bunker a week after he fell.

“You’re on,” he mumbles against the heat of Cas’s skin as his fingers dance along the undulations of Cas’s spine.


	14. Asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wakes tangled in his best friend.

Castiel wakes tangled in his best friend.

He’s disoriented, at first. His memories of the night prior are liquor-glazed and fuzzy, like a sepia toned 1920s film. Soundless and warm, blurred around the edges. But now his head is on Dean’s shoulder, his face buried in Dean’s neck and Dean’s in his hair, arm pulling him closer against Dean’s chest and his leg a dead weight across Cas’. Cas shifts gently in an attempt to survey the collateral. From an outsider’s perspective, it doesn’t look good. Cas doesn’t know how Dean would react if he woke up to find them like this; whether he’d remember how they’d collapsed the night before on the motel mattress in a drunken stupor, that Cas had put his head on Dean’s chest as Dean had wrapped his arm around Cas’ shoulders, expecting to roll away in the night, and that it had been a mutual decision to drift off like this. Instead they’re breathing in tandem, limbs stitched by the vestiges of sleep and a lack of proper consciousness, and Castiel wonders if it means anything.

It probably doesn’t.

Cas can hear Dean grinding his teeth in his sleep, and he realises, in that instant, that this might possibly be the most physically intimate habit he know about him. Dean’s sleep patterns, his utter vulnerability. Cas knows those demons that plague his mind to the point that he wears his teeth while dreaming.

Cas tries to tell himself that he’s not love with Dean. Has been trying for years. He understands how the line between friend and lover can blur, how it’s a tight distinction. How platonic love can often be mistaken for romantic. Cas is not deluded, though; he knows that despite the fact they are rarely physical with each other, this is a one-off occurrence because both needed comfort. That the night before, as it trickles back in dribs and drabs, smeared by intoxication and unconsciousness, was an intimacy that wasn’t entirely platonic, but nor was it sexual. It crossed lines. It had felt like two young children fumbling for understanding, for definitive answers.

Maybe what they really needed to grasp was their lives, their feelings: their complete dependency and infinite need for each other.

Which is, of course, for different reasons.

The thought hits Cas like a freight train and suddenly he needs to get away from Dean, away from the excruciatingly hot press of his body and the cage of his limbs and the too-soft mouth that is pressed against the skin of Castiel’s forehead. It’s too much, too soon; an overwhelming flood of sensory perception and sentiment that makes Castiel feel like he’s drowning. He gasps for air and tries to pull away, mindful of both Dean’s PTSD and his own anxiety, and suddenly Dean’s eyelids are fluttering open and Castiel’s vision is filled with freckles and eyelashes and green.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel mumbles, frozen in a half-roll off the bed. His breath huffs out over Dean’s upper lip.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is sleep roughen and husky. Whiskey and smoke. He pulls away from Cas and stretches, thin t-shirt riding up over the V of his hips to reveal a line of skin and hair, and Castiel’s breathing hitches.

Cas is so utterly gone on Dean. He’s fucked.

Dean clears his throat and rolls to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “Uh, where’s Sammy?”

Castiel doesn’t respond.

There’s an awkward silence, and then: “Look, about last night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cas says, trying to sound like Dean’s presence isn’t affecting him, that his all too-human heart isn’t fluttering futilely like a bird with broken wings against his breastbone.

Dean glances furtively at Cas before his gaze drops to his hands. He looks as if he’s about to bolt. “No, but –“

Castiel sighs, interrupting Dean. “We were drunk and both required comfort, which we could offer to each other. It’s fine, Dean.” He laughs bitterly. “I know I’m human now, but that shouldn’t change how we relate to each other.”

“Yeah, I… you’re right.” Dean grins, clearly pleased that the conversation is over, and rises to his feet. “Sammy’s gonna be a little bitch about it, though. Probably expecting declarations of love, or some shit. He’ll want to have a heart to heart and a cry about it anyway since he’s such a goddamn girl.” He snorts out a laugh. “Breakfast?”

Cas’ answering smile feels brittle and saccharine and it fucking hurts, but he swallows his own feelings because he needs Dean in ways he never has before and it scares the shit out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written a few months back. It was the first fic I posted to tumblr, and was based on the beginning of an original piece I wrote.
> 
> Title taken from The Smiths song of the same name, but the song has very little relevance to the piece, I suppose. I'm just lazy.


	15. Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gives Cas one of his old, faded flannels and it’s way more distracting than he could ever have imagined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of a prompt meme thing I did on tumblr. The prompt was given by [inthebackoftheimpala](www.inthebackoftheimpala.tumblr.com) :D

He should never have given the damn fallen angel one of his fucking flannels.

They’re supposed to be hunting a Wendigo in upstate Washington, somewhere near the US/Canadian border, and they’ve been stalking the son of a bitch for hours. There’s no way it should be taking this long, however, except for how it is, because Dean keeps getting distracted by the stretch of faded plaid across Cas’s back. The red and black goes something awesome with his golden skin tone, and the material is just the right kind of too big and worn that Cas has to roll up the sleeves and expose lean forearms with their thin chords of muscle. Not to mention that it’s Cas in his clothes.

Cas’s last over-shirt got torn to shreds on their previous hunt, and they haven’t crossed another army surplus store since the one in Seattle that had been liquidated. It’s about fifty kinds of hot, five kinds of possession, and is creating all sorts of fantasies that will entertain him for weeks and Dean just can’t fucking concentrate. Who’d blame him?

Except, clearly, Sam and Cas are.

He’s misread the map for the fifth time and stumbled for the eighth before Cas is pulling the paper from Dean’s hands and squinting at it himself.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sam says, because he’s been in a foul mood ever since the girl turned him down in Forks. Currently, his hands are perched defiantly on his narrow hips, he’s got on a bitchface to rival someone who just sucked a lemon, and he’s staring Dean down like Dean just told him that they’re never gonna celebrate Christmas again. Cas just huffs and rolls his eyes. Dean grins slyly at Sam, trying to pretend that he’s not half as shaken as he actually is.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He tries to wink but is pretty sure his face just twitches unattractively. Sam buys it, though, and mutters something unintelligible before turning back towards the track.

“We’re not far,” Cas says in his trademark tenor grumble. Dean tries not to wince. Sometimes he thinks that Cas could read the freaking phone book and it’d still go straight to his dick. “We’re about half a mile out.”

Dean decides that it’s perhaps better if he walks in front of Cas from here on out, rather than slightly behind the guy like he has been for the past five miles. They might actually accomplish something.

“Let’s go ice this motherfucker,” he says with all the composure he doesn’t feel as he steps forward in to the verdant undergrowth.

——

Later that evening, once the Wendigo’s put down and Sam’s out purchasing dinner, Dean pulls Cas roughly in to the safety of their shared motel room and pushes his mouth again the fallen angel’s. It’s two minutes of passionate kissing, a rasp of lips and rolling tongue, before Cas is pulling away and frowning at Dean.

“What was that for?” he mumbles, lips sucked full and to a hue that is highlighted beautifully by the crimson squares of the shirt. Dean realises that he still has the collar of the flannel fisted between his palms.

“You’re never allowed to wear that shirt on a hunt again. Ever. Understand?” he growls in Cas’s ear. He can feel the press of Cas’s erection against his inner thigh, his own tenting his jeans obscenely. “Only on free days.”

“Duly noted?” Cas manages to say through a moan in to Dean’s mouth.

“Good.” Dean presses the word against the skin of Cas’s neck and begins to undo Cas’s belt.

“Actually, remind me to wear your clothes more often,” Cas gasps, and Dean can feel the fucker grin against his lips.

“You’ll fucking kill me yet, you little shit.”


	16. Cakes and Fake Weddings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas play fake fiancés for a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Jess's](http://www.deanhugchester.tumblr.com) birthday. Idea sort of stolen from the movie 'The Accidental Husband'

"So how did you two meet?"

The assistant asks when Dean’s goddamn well got his fork wedged between his lips and his mouth stuffed with cake. They’re sitting in the wedding cake tasting shop - which is named something ironic like Heaven’s Cakes - waiting for Sam to text them with the name of the dude who’s been shoving hex bags in tiered monstrosities. The place is filled with too much pastel and ribbon for Dean’s taste, and now they’ve got this stranger with a lurid nametag that reads “Cynthia" asking about the state of their non-existent relationship. 

Of course Cas has a clear mouth because he eats cake like a fucking bird, so before Dean can interrupt with comment about how he’s only here ‘on behalf of Cas’s fiancé’ or something similar, Cas answers with, “I gripped Dean tight and pulled him from Perdition."

Dean almost chokes on his cake in his attempt to hurriedly swallow the mouthful, but it sticks to his throat and the roof of his mouth he can barely breathe around the chocolate mess, let alone get words out. He tries to reach under the table to pinch Cas’s leg, or touch his hand, or anything to try and get him to stop, but of course he’s too late.

"I suppose, technically, we met because of God in a barn in Pontiac, Illinois," Cas continues. He loads his fork up with another tiny piece before adding cheerfully: “Dean stabbed me."

The woman’s expression changes from bemusement to alarm. Dean needs to clear this up, quick, before the cops are called. He feels his eyes watering as he swallows the lump forcefully, coughs, and clears his throat before wheezing: “What he means is that I was a um… stablehand at a barn in Pontiac, and I er, managed to slip and fall when I was mucking out the stalls. Prince Charming here managed to pull me out, but not before I caught his arm with my fork by accident.” His mouth curls in to the most charming grin he can muster as he slings his arm around Cas’s shoulders. “God’s will." The woman’s face relaxes; she smiles. Cas just glances at him questioningly.

Dean’s phone buzzes suddenly: Sam. He checks it surreptitiously, pretending to drop cake in his lap. The name Sam sends him, however, is not what he was expecting; it’s not a dude at all who’s been turning cakes in to iced deathtraps – it’s the daughter of the woman in front of them right now. “Of all the fucking luck…” he mutters under his breath.

“It’s so fantastic that you’re so happy together,” she’s saying over Dean’s head as he eases himself up. “When’s the big day?”

Shit. Dean immediately realizes that he’s gonna have to ham it up a bit if this is going to work. He sends a silent prayer of apology to Cas before tugging him closer.

“A month,” he says, turning to face Cas. “In Central Park. Isn’t that right, baby?”

Cas may be oblivious, but he’s one of the smartest guys Dean knows and he cottons on quickly. “Yes. A month. I cannot wait.” He dead pans it, though, his voice holding no emotion, and he makes no effort to be more affectionate towards Dean. They need this woman on side, for fussake, so they can ask about her daughter. Desperate measures. Dean takes Castiel’s fork from where it’s sitting beside his plate, cuts a bit of cake off with the edge, and moves it towards Cas’s mouth. For an awkward moment, Dean worries that Cas won’t comply, but his jaw opens mechanically and Dean pushes the cake inside. He brushes the stray crumbs off from around Cas’s lips with his thumb.

This is way more physical intimacy than he’s comfortable with Cas, and he’s being reminded of all the fantasies he’s been trying to forget over the past few months. This is torture.

“So, uh, you got a family?” Dean asks, replacing Cas’s fork. He tries to shift until the angel is forced to move his arm to a more comfortable position – like around Dean’s shoulders.

“Yes, I do. My husband, Jack, and our two daughters,” she says warmly.

“Ah yeah, kids. Cas and I were considering adopting.” Finally, finally Cas wraps his arm around Dean’s waist. His fingers clutch at the loose material of Dean’s shirt, and a pulse of something warm shoots to Dean’s stomach.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah.” Dean takes another bite of cake. Chews contemplatively. Swallows. “So how old are your daughters?”

“Twenty-two and twenty seven. Their names are Charlotte and Elizabeth. My, how the years pass - it seems like only yesterday they were still in diapers!” Dean grimaces involuntarily, but she doesn’t notice. “How was the chocolate? Can I get you more cake?”

“Loved it. And that’d be great, thanks! Although you don’t have wedding pie instead, do you?” Dean shifts his legs, trying to pretend that he’s not developing a massive hard-on in the middle of a wedding cake shop with his best friend draped over him.

The woman giggles and shakes her head as she walks away.

“Damn. Thought it was worth a try,” he says, finishing the cake on his plate.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs in Dean’s ear suddenly, head tilted towards him, hair tickling the side of his neck, “why are you using my back as an arm rest?”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh. “I’m not, Cas. She obviously thinks we’re a real couple here to sample the delights of Heaven’s Cakes before our ‘Big’ - with a capital ‘B’ - day. We’re only still here ‘cause it’s her daughter who’s been planting the hex bags, and we need to know how to get in contact with her since she’s not working here today. I figured the best way to do that way to try and win the day’s more adorable couple award.”

"The first part was obvious," Cas huffs, because he’s an irritable little shit. Dean rolls his eyes. “So do we have a plan?"

Dean shrugs. “Just be friendly, I guess. Try to get her on side. Even if it means…" He makes a sort of gesture with his free arm, but it’s pretty ambiguous, so he just ends up lacing his fingers with Cas’s on the table. "… Er, yeah."

Cas stares at their entwined hands but doesn’t pull away. “Right." Dean can’t read his expression, and it makes him uneasy. 

"Okay, you two lovebirds," Cynthia announces as she returns, “try the red velvet."

Cas shifts uncomfortably and pulls his arm from behind Dean so he can reach for the plate. Dean starts drawing absent-minded circles on the back of Cas’s hand with his thumb.

"Let me return the favour," Cas says, cutting off the biggest chunk of cake Dean thinks could fit on the goddamn fork. Suddenly it’s heading for his face, Cas’s head tilted as he squints in concentration at Dean’s mouth, like feeding him is fucking rocket science or something. Dean feels like a baby bird. He only just manages to get his mouth open wide enough before he is consumed by too much sugar, too, and he knows he’s pulling the most embarrassing faces ever as he tries not to gag.

"Mmm," he mutters once he’s finished chewing. “Thanks, Cas."

Cas clearly doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm because his mouth quirks in a small smile, like he’s done a Good Thing. Dean’s stomach flops.

"Oh, you two!" Cynthia says, all flustered, face bright red. Dean isn’t so sure he’s so comfortable being objectified by an old woman, but hey, it’s all for the case, right? Nothing to do with his attraction to Cas. Nope. “Just the way you look at each other! Reminds me of my husband and I back in the old days. How long have you been together?"

Cas answers “five years" at the same time Dean answers “eight months".

"Five years and eight months," Cas amends, and Dean glances at him affectionately. “You and your husband?"

"Thirty five years this December."

"A long time," Cas says, which they both know is a lie, since he’s been around for millennia.

"So your children live in New York too?" Dean asks casually. People always love talking about their kids, though, so he’s not too worried. 

"Both in Queens," she nods. “One – Elizabeth - is at college at NYU, and the other – Charlotte - works here three days a week and at a diner in the city for another three. Has done since her fiancé left her a few months back for another woman, bless her poor heart. And he got married to another woman a month after; can you believe it? Died shortly after the wedding, though. Freak accident. Just desserts I suppose.”

Bingo, Dean thinks. Bitter slighted woman hexed her cheating fiancé and is still so angry that she’s killed another three happy couples.

“That’s terrible,” Cas says.

“Yeah, I guess,” she replies.

Dean doesn’t even care any more. “What’s the name of the diner? Good pay?”

“The Blackbird. Yes, it’s not bad; she gets a lot of tips. Working there today, in face. I can’t keep her on here all the time here, you see; I can run it by myself, mostly. She just helps with the baking really.”

Dean pushes his plate away, makes a display of stretching his arms and pulling away from Cas, and stands up. “Well, thanks much for this. The cake was delicious. I think we’ve got all we need though, now, Cas. We’ve gotta make that um, tux fitting appointment by three and uh, the florist stuff by four.”

“Yes,” Cas says, almost knocking the table over as he stands. “Tuxes, right. They are a must have at weddings. And we mustn’t forget the flowers.”

“Exactly,” Dean grins. “Here’s my card.”

They walk over to the cash register and the woman rings it through. “Which was your favourite?”

“The caramel,” he and Cas both answer in unison. They glance at each other in surprise, faces splitting in to matching smiles.

“Ah, that’s my favourite too!” She hands back Dean’s card. “Um, you wouldn’t mind doing one thing for me though, would you?”

 

“… Yeah?” Dean asks hesitantly. They’ve got all they need now, but he feels sort of bad, for some reason, about the thought of disappointing this woman. He really hopes that they don’t have to kill her daughter later this afternoon.

“Well, you see,” she continues, a bit sheepishly, “my youngest daughter’s done a lot of work with the LGBT community here - particularly with the legalization of same-sex marriage - and is bisexual herself, so she’d really love to hear about you two. You wouldn’t mind if I got a photo, would you?”

Creepy and patronising much, Dean thinks, but he shrugs and says, “Why not.”

So that’s how he ends up kissing Cas’s stubbly, flushed cheek for the first time in the middle of a cake shop in lower Manhattan. Little does he know that there are many better kisses to come.


	17. Morning Sex Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sex is Dean’s favourite sort of sex.

Morning sex is Dean’s favourite sort of sex. Fingertips press in to the ridges of his spine, insistent and needy, as he shifts in to a more comfortable position above Cas. It’s almost nine, and Dean can hear movement out in the corridor as Kevin gets ready to shower and Sam gets the front door open. He figures they have about twenty minutes before Sam gets back with the paper and Kevin emerges from the bathroom, so he and Cas better make the most of it.

Cas sighs, deep and guttural, sleep-warm and loose limbed as Dean presses open-mouthed kisses down the V of Cas’s hips. Dean’s considering working him open until those heavy-lidded eyes are wide open and blown black, but instead he sucks Cas lazily in to his mouth and runs his palms up Cas’s thighs. This elicits a groan. Cas’s fingers flex against Dean’s neck. 

Dean pulls off and grins mischievously up at Cas, who immediately says “No.” because he’s as grumpy as fucking Oscar the Grouch in the mornings and can only speak in monosyllables. He runs the backs of his knuckles up the nape of Dean’s neck, gentling urging Dean’s mouth back towards his cock, and Dean happily complies. Dean sucks roughly, teasingly, enjoying watching as Cas’s self-restraint slowly breaks and he begins to almost fuck in to Dean’s mouth, his hips and hands twitching in concert.

Cas is soon flushed and quivering, whispering Dean’s name almost like a prayer, a litany of DeanDeanDean working its way between slightly parted lips. Dean’s working his own cock steadily in his palm and moaning loudly. When he knows Cas is about to come, he pulls his mouth off with a dull pop and fists Cas’s cock. White come stripes Cas’s chest as Cas reaches climax with an exclaimed profanity.Dean’s tongue follows the lines up Cas’s chest as he licks the mess away before coming in the exact same spot. Cas fucking whines, pelvis stuttering, and reaches to pull Dean towards him, ignoring the stickiness between them. Yep. Morning sex is definitely Dean’s favourite  
.


	18. Parting gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Cas is leaving the Bunker, Dean thrusts a box in to his hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9x03 coda. A lot of ppl were upset by the ep, so I tried to make it better by writing a couple of deancas codas.

As Cas is leaving the Bunker, Dean thrusts a box in to his hands. It weighs about a pound, is distinctly square, and is wrapped in pink paper covered in rainbow unicorns. Cas looks up questioningly.

"For you," Dean says awkwardly, shifting his weight, eyes downcast. "I just, yeah."

"Okay," Cas says. He stows it in the duffle Dean presented him with earlier, which is filled with what Dean calls ‘toiletries’ and a bunch of Dean’s old clothes, as well as some dried food and a bladder of water.

Dean hasn’t looked at Cas directly since he told him he had to leave three hours ago, but now he pulls Cas in to a tight hug. Cas remains rigid. Dean snuffles at Cas’s neck a little and says wetly, “It’s not you, Cas, it’s me. I…”

Cas moves to rest one hand on the small of Dean’s back and presses back in to the embrace. “It’s okay, Dean. I understand.” He doesn’t, really. He’s realised these past few days how little he actually understands, but for now, he can be strong for Dean.

Dean drives him to the nearest bus station and hands him a wad of cash. They sit in the car for a little while, not talking, and the silence is nice. Peaceful. Like there’s nothing left to say between them, although Cas knows that’s far from the truth.

When Cas’s bus is due to arrive, Dean leans across the seat and presses his lips to Cas’s cheek. It’s not at all like it was with April; Dean’s lips are somehow softer and his stubble burns Cas’s skin and Cas feels like he’s missing something.

"Stay safe," Dean says, voice thick with an emotion Cas cannot describe. He nods, smiles, and leaves the Impala, heaving the duffle up on to his shoulder.

It’s not until Cas is lying on a motel bed somewhere in Illinois that he opens the wrapped box. Inside is a disposable cell phone and a scrap of paper, a note scrawled across it in Dean’s tight script. There are instructions telling Cas how to delete all traces of contact from the phone, and the words, Stay safe. Keep in contact. I’m so sorry, Cas.

Cas leaves the phone on the bed and takes a shower, spending longer than he should under the scalding water, turning it off only when his skin is a bright, angry red and the pads of his fingers are wrinkled and numb. He returns to the bedroom and finds an old shirt of Dean’s and some underwear before lying back against the headboard of his bed. Everything smells like Dean, now, and it’s a painful sort of comfort. Taking the phone, he presses Dean’s number in to the keypad and taps out a short message. He deletes it once the message is sent and sets the cell on the beside table before turning off the light and falling in to a restless slumber.

At 1:08am, he’s still asleep when Dean’s text comes through. Cas will wake with the dawn, sunlight curling its fingers around the shutters, and smile at the message that appears on the screen. _Miss you, too,_ he’ll reply, ending the first of many text conversations to come.


	19. Hedonism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Cas mentions having sex with someone who isn’t Dean, it hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another 9x03 coda. i read a bit of meta on this ep - after i'd written this - that i might agree with more, but idk. this was my interpretation/way of explaining Jensen's strange acting choices in this scene. i'm getting lazy with chapter titles too. i'm sorry. all my ficlets get posted to my [tumblr](http//:www.hubrisandwax.tumblr.com) first. come say hi anytime :)

It hurts. 

As soon as Cas mentions having sex with someone who isn’t Dean, it hurts. Dean pretends it doesn’t, of course, but it’s agony – like a salted knife blade pressed against his chest. He chokes on his food, jealousy – acrid and hot – pooling in his stomach, and he lurches forward, emotion bleeding in to his tone. “You had sex with April?”

Sam makes some sort of snipe, but Dean honestly doesn’t hear anything above the angry buzzing noise inside his skull. Cas inclines his head slightly, confused, clearly unable to understand whatever feeling Dean is currently projecting. Dean realises this could go either way; he could befuddle Cas further by acting possessive, by getting angry at Cas for something he doesn’t understand, or he could pretend that everything’s okay. That the thought of another person’s hands all over Cas’s body doesn’t make him want to throw up.

He chooses the latter and paints on a smile, because he’s not some immature character from goddamn Days of our Lives. This isn’t a soap opera. This is his life, no happy ending guaranteed, and his smile feels tight and saccharine, pushing melodramatic, but it works. Cas’s face relaxes in to something a little less concerned; Dean just feels sick.

He clears his throat.

"So er, did you use protection?" It sounds vaguely uncomfortable, the words gruff as they try to stick in his mouth, but it’s okay. And Cas - Cas, fucking bless him, no matter how much Dean is hurting right now - mentions angel blades, because of course he’s never had a sex ed class in his life and probably thinks condoms are a sort of greasy oblong balloon. He’s never had to worry about petty human things like illness before.

Dean just turns Cas’s response in to a joke, and Sam plays along with it. Thankfully. But then Cas mentions how he reckons they’ll make great teachers, and that’s got to take the fucking cake, because Dean’s not gonna lie, his mind spends a lot of time rolling in the gutter, and he automatically thinks about teaching Cas about sex. Which is something he’s thought about a lot, actually. He feels his expression shift to something resembling discomfort, but he’s not gonna go there. It’s too late now. Dean has stood up to Lucifer and damned himself to an eternity in Hell and carved out a place for himself in Purgatory, a land with no laws, but he can’t tell a fucking ex Angel of the Lord that he’s in love with him. He’s a coward, pure and simple, because although he can finally admit to himself that he has feelings, he can’t deal with the thought of getting even more emotionally invested in something only to lose it. Again. Too bad it’s already too late.

As Cas moves off, seemingly satisfied with their discussion and oblivious to Dean’s current emotional state (and why shouldn’t he be; he’s never had ‘occasion’ to learn the nuances of the human condition), Sam sends a questioning glance at Dean, like this isn’t how he imagined Dean would react to finding out that Cas had sex for the first time. And yeah, to be honest, Dean thought he’d be the one to take Cas’s virginity, so this is totally unexpected for him, as well. He never thought he’d even have to react. He’s never even been able to reconcile the image of Cas having sex with someone else, because although he knows Cas is a sexual being (he’s seen him pop a boner at a porno and make out with a Demon), he’s also the guy who freaked out at the thought of fucking a prostitute, who always equated sex with love. Dean’s treading on new territory, here, and it’s entirely disconcerting.

But then Sam disappears before he can reprimand Dean, the strange flicker of his features as he changes in to something more mechanical - Sam-but-not-Sam - demands immediate attention, and all Dean’s inconsequential thoughts about sex disappear, because reality check, there are more important things than where Cas does or doesn’t stick his dick. All Dean wants, though, is a reprieve; a moment to take a breath, to collect his thoughts, to try and figure out what he needs to do. But of course he’s not granted even that, because this is his life, and there’s always a problem to be solved, people to be saved.

Or an ex angel to disappoint, Dean thinks bitterly. This is his life; his choices. Is this who he wants to be?


	20. All I Want For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one thing Dean truly wants for Christmas (besides the obvious stuff).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KEVIN IS STILL ALIVE YOU CAN’T MAKE ME WRITE OTHERWISE (this fic is set sort of in a parallel universe probably set a few years into the future where everyone is alive and Cas is still human and Sam isn’t possessed by an angel and yeah. just casually re-writing parts of S9. don’t mind me). Written as part of the [12daysofdestiel](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/) christmas challenge, and posted [here](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/post/70631662674/all-i-want-for-christmas) :). Go and read all the other author's excellent fics!

Dean starts talking about Christmas in October, and no matter how much it drives him nuts, Sam doesn’t have the heart to shut him up.

“We have a home now, Sammy. We gotta make the most of it,” Dean says one early December morning, far too chipper than he has any right to be at eight am on a saturday. “Ham, turkey, decorations, presents, family… the whole Christmas experience.”

Sam looks at Dean and raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t give me the bitchface. Eat your goddamn toast.”

So that’s how they end up at the closest shopping mall during the christmas rush, fighting their way through screaming children and stressed parents. Dean looks excited at the prospect of selecting Christmas decorations. Sam tries to feel enthusiastic, but fails; he did the whole Christmas thing with Amelia the year prior, and mostly he remembers brightly colored lights coupled with far too much stress, a sort of technicolor blur smeared by her father’s begrudging acceptance. 

“D’you you think a colour theme might work?” Dean says once they reach Walmart’s ‘decoration’ aisle. “Maybe silver and blue?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam says distractedly. He’s busy sending a text to Charlie stating his current predicament. “Whatever you want, Dean.”

Dean nods, looking satisfied. “Perfect. Now it’s just presents and food.” He strides off with a green box caught under his arm, head held high, moving easily through the crowds of people. Sam dodges a five year old in a bright pink dress throwing a tantrum over tinsel and hurries to catch up.

 

Dean hasn’t always loved Christmas.

It was hard as a kid, forgoing dinner for a week so he could buy presents for Sam in order to play ‘santa’. What he couldn’t buy, he’d steal. The hardest thing, though, was trying to keep the presents a secret from Sam, who was always far too smart for his own good.

But it was always worth it to see the look on the kid’s face when he woke up to a pile of presents.

Now they have a home for the first time in, well, ever, and Dean wants to make the most of it. He’s never had a proper Christmas with Sam. The one he spent with Lisa started off fine, but by the end of the evening he felt the absence of other loved ones far too keenly and downed just over a fifth of whiskey before collapsing in to bed. They hadn’t even cut the Christmas cake.

This year, however, he’s busy in the bunker kitchen on Christmas Eve, glazing the ham and boiling the pudding with Cas, Sam, and Kevin crowded around the kitchen table as they discuss other religious ceremonies. Dean feels a surge of warmth as he looks at them, his family, familiar and warm in their shared space. Garth and Charlie are coming for food tomorrow, too. Sheriff Mills was also invited, but she politely declined, stating that this was one of the busiest times of year for her. Cas volunteered to come early in order to ‘help’, but all he’s done so far is drink too much eggnog and get frustrated over the ‘meaning’ of Christmas.

He’s stumbling up to get another glass of eggnog now, though, argument with Sam and Kevin clearly forgotten as he moves swiftly - albeit unsteadily - towards Dean. 

“Jesus was my favourite prophet,” Cas whispers conspiratorially as he pulls the top off another bottle. “It’s nice to be celebrating his birthday.”

Dean grins and continues to paint the ham with amber-coloured syrup. “So you knew him?”

“Yes,” Cas says casually, sombrely, like he’s discussing bad weather, not first hand knowledge of one of the most historically significant beings in Western culture. “Such a kind and generous soul. He’d hate to see so much bitterness between angels and humans today.” Cas pauses and takes a gulp from his glass before levelling Dean with his unwavering bright blue gaze. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I think I’m right with food. You could put on some music?”

Cas looks pleased. And slightly proud. “Kevin said he didn’t think you could cook anything other than burgers. I never doubted you though, Dean.” But before Dean can reply, Cas is walking over to the stereo and turning it on. 

The station is playing Christmas songs. 

“And right now, folks, we have a popular classic for you: ‘All I Want For Christmas’ by Mariah Carey. Enjoy.”

Cas walks back over to the table but doesn’t even bother to try to rejoin the conversation. He just continues to stare at Dean with a small smile playing across his lips, face cast in to half light by the candles as the shadows dance across the hollows of his face. The effect is breathtaking; Dean almost burns his hand as he pushes the ham in to the oven. And although it’s corny, and far too trite for Dean’s taste - hell, way too fucking coincidental - the song just… fits the scene perfectly. Dean suddenly feels like he’s in a really bad rom com, like canned laughter is about to spill from the speakers and a director’s gonna call ‘cut’ and the moment’s gonna be destroyed. But none of that happens. Instead, Dean is allowed to enjoy Christmas Eve with his four favourite people as a song that Dean can relate too far too much hangs hauntingly on the air long after another song begins, his eyes set to Cas’s face, snared by Cas’s own liquor-glazed gaze.

 

The next morning, Charlie arrives on time and Garth slightly late. Since they don’t have a proper fireplace in the bunker, Dean’s purchased a gas heater with a fake flame, which creates almost the same ambience. The food is excellent; Dean’s cheeks are bright crimson by the end of the meal, as no one can stop moaning around mouthfuls and complimenting his cooking. Even Sam manages to get in to the swing of things, despite his earlier grumblings. They all look ridiculous in their christmas cracker hats as they read the terrible jokes hidden inside and drink way too much alcohol. They sing Merry Christmas and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer (“I definitely relate to Rudolf,” Cas says, oblivious to the awkwardness the comment creates) and Silent Night. But they’re all happy - no one’s talking about the end of the world, no one’s life is in immediate danger, no one’s too caught up in trouble to appreciate the moment.

Cas and Charlie get on like a house on fire, of course. No surprises there, but Dean’s still pretty thrilled. Charlie brings her Magic: The Gathering decks - much to Kevin’s delight - and they end up playing some variation of the game that involves drinking for every mana they tap, once they’ve all got the hang of the game.

Then presents are distributed. Kevin and Charlie both receive an assortment of video games; Dean, Sam and Garth end up with a lot of beer (and Dan with a Star Wars shirt, thanks to Charlie); and Cas receives a bunch of new clothes. Dean’s a little bit confused when Cas gives a gift to everyone but him, though. Not that he was expecting anything, but… yeah. It seems odd. 

It’s not until later that evening that Cas explains it to Dean.

He approaches Dean when Dean’s sitting off to the side on a couch in their living room, watching Garth and Sam argue over the best method to kill a harpy and Charlie and Kevin mutter over their third game of Magic. Dean’s feeling full and warm and content. But then Cas comes and - as he usually does - messes with Dean’s bubble of ‘zen’, flipping Dean’s perceptions upside down without realising it and (at least in this case) solving a never ending problem.  
The first thing that Dean notices is that Cas looks nervous. He’s fiddling with an object that’s caught in the sleeve of his hideous christmas sweater (it’s brown with white reindeers and pink flowers and Dean almost didn’t let him sit at the dinner table when he first saw it) and walking steadily forward.

“Um,” Cas begins as soon as he reaches the couch. He doesn’t sit down. “You may be wondering why I didn’t give you a gift, as is customary in Western Christmas traditions.”

Dean frowns. “Uh, sure? I didn’t really… y’know, expect you to buy me anything, Cas. Having you here is enough.”

Cas looks pained by that comment, which wasn’t what Dean was aiming for. “Thank you, Dean. That’s sort of…”

“You can sit down, you know,”

“Yes,” Cas says, and he unceremoniously drops to the couch. “But that’s not what I…” He huffs irately and pulls the object from under his sleeve - it’s Sam’s iPod. “This was Sam’s idea, actually. He said he saw something you wrote, so.”

Dean’s starting to worry now. “Okay? I dunno whether to be concerned or not, but whatever it is, thanks, dude, it might be Sam’s iPod but I appreciate the-“

Cas just huffs again, presses a button on the iPod, and presses up in to Dean’s person space. He’s turned bright crimson. Dean recognises the tune; ’All I Want For Christmas’ filters quietly through the small speakers as he looks down at Cas. Time sort of slows a little, congealing, until it’s just the two of them and that song, and Cas is leaning forward, and they’re sharing breaths, and that’s lips brushing against his neck, and -

Cas is kissing him. Holy fucking shit, he’s kissing Cas back. This is a thing that is happening.

Dean’s brain sort of fizzles out to white, then, as he coasts some sort of high. It’s incredible. The world dissolves away as Cas’s lips move against his, Cas’s teeth nip at his lower lip (fuck who taught Cas to kiss this dirty), Cas’s hands flutter against his hips.

It ends as soon as Cas pulls away, which is way sooner than Dean wants. His skin prickles with disappointment.

“I didn’t know how I was going to be… received,” Cas murmurs, catching his breath, all puffy pink lips and messy black hair. He leans further in to Dean. “Sam said you wrote a note, and…”

Dean glances around. No one else seems to be paying attention to their exchange, which Dean’s pretty grateful for, so he looks back down at Cas. He swallows hard. “Uh, yeah, there was…”

“‘For christmas I want the courage to tell Cas how I feel?’”

“Maybe something like that, yeah,” Dean says, flushing, feeling ten types of embarrassed but also fifty different sorts or really fucking elated.

“So Sam thought that I could give myself to you this Christmas.”

“That’s sort of… corny.”

Cas looks petrified. “I almost bought you a sweater like mine. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous, I -“

Dean takes initiative this time and kisses the words right out of Cas’s mouth. “Sam got it right,” he whisper’s against sun-bronzed skin. “So thank you. Best christmas ever.”

Cas smiles wider than Dean thought was possible. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”


	21. Beth/Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the Bon Iver song of the same name (idk why i chose it particularly; i like the song and it could be applicable).

"I can’t sleep, Dean," he says, standing in the doorway to Dean’s room for the third time that night - an inked shape drawn in broad brushstrokes against warm yellow light. Dean rolls over and blinks blearily at the intruder.

"Cas?" Dean’s voice is sleep rough and heavy, like he’s spent the last three hours sucking on cotton balls. His first instinct is to reach for the gun kept in the drawer beside his bed. "Everything okay?"

"No," Cas says, shifting his weight. "Every time I close my eyes, I’m transported to a new place. It’s disconcerting."

Dean can’t help himself; he chuckles quietly. He removes his hand from where it’s hovering in the air between the bed and the table and eases himself back under the sheets. “You’re dreaming, Cas.”

A tiny, irate huff comes from the foot of his bed. “Angels don’t dream, Dean.”

"Angels apparently don’t eat PB&J sandwiches or watch romcoms, either, but hey - there’s a first for everything." Dean sinks further into the warm, gentle comfort of his memory foam mattress. “Your dreams’re probably a result of the fall, or something,. Go back to sleep.”

Silence. Three minutes pass. Dean can still feel the angel’s eyes watching him, and, judging by sound, Cas probably hasn’t moved an inch. Hell, the dude watched over earth for millennia; he could probably comfortably stand there all night.

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t do well at being watched.

"I’m not gonna get rid of you, am I?" Dean mumbles irritably when the red numbers on the clock beside his bed indicate that fifteen minutes have passed. "C’mon, then. I’m not having you ‘watch over’ me all night, or whatever."

More silence; Cas doesn’t move. Dean opens his eyes simply so he can roll them - since when was playing mom to angels part of his job description?

"That was an invitation. We ain’t got all night, sunshine."

Dean hears Cas move towards the bed. He slides stiffly between the sheets and lies on his back, hair a murky splash against the pillow, skin glowing gold in the half light. His body remains entirely rigid. Dean sighs. In the morning, he’ll blame it on exhaustion and the fact that he was half asleep, but he trails his fingertips down the length of Cas’s forearm in an effort to comfort him, whispering in to the air between them, “It’s okay, Cas. You’re safe.”

Cas relaxes, then, like someone’s let all the air out of a balloon. Dean feels tentative nails scratch against his palm before Cas curls his fingers between Dean’s, a tiny smile playing across his lips.

"Thank you, Dean. You’re the best at chasing monsters away, after all" is the last thing Dean hears before he falls back to sleep.


	22. Shower Fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You haven't seen him in three weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual, i blame Chris (rockchester) for publishing all his excellent fic this week written in second person and thus inspiring this, and Jo (sherryandgin) for writing a perfect deancas poem that made me rly angry and feel the urge to 'get her back'. kinda based on the promo of 9x18. i'm not sorry.

You haven’t seen him in three weeks.

You haven’t seen him in three weeks, and it hurts. It’s become less of an emotional thing and more of a physical manifestation; your throat closes a little bit, sometimes, in response to the dull throb under your ribs that makes it hard to breathe; your skin itches with the need to be close to him; sometimes, everything just feels not enough, a sensation you can’t really explain with words.

Mostly, you can control it. Push all thoughts of him to the periphery of your consciousness. Mention him only casually in a throwaway comments, like “he was an okay guy”, even when “okay” doesn’t even begin to describe what he is. But you can’t even admit that much to yourself, most of the time.

Except now, standing in the shower with the alcohol from four beers causing a dull buzzing in your head, it’s easy to forget that you’re not meant to be thinking about him.

Instead, you rest your hands across your chest and imagine that they’re his hands pressing there way into your biceps. You imagine how he’d hold you – tight, firm, like the anchor he’s always been. You’d push your own hands up his neck, into his hair, and you’d run your fingertips through the wet locks. He’d moan, you know, those filthy fucking lips opening in a small ‘o’ to let out that low tone.

You can feel the blood rushing to your dick immediately.

That mouth, which has commanded armies and insulted Lucifer and uttered the words of God, would press against your clavicle and suck heart-shaped bruises into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His fingers would flutter down your torso, scraping their way down your abs, across your tiny tummy, through your treasure trail, until they reached the prize at the end. You know he’d be slow about it – torturous, teasing. He has the patience of a saint, coupled with an extreme sort of intensity that you find is a massive turn on, and you have often fantasised how it would translate to sex. You imagine he’d play your body like Jimi Hendrix played his guitar; all concentrated passion. He’d make you whine much the same, too.

But now, in your fantasy, he’s sinking to his knees after giving your dick a couple of lazy strokes. He looks up at you, blue eyes wide, wet fringe curling around his forehead and dripping down his cheekbones, lips sucked puffy and pink. He grips your thighs with too-strong hands and sinks down on your dick.

He’d be sloppy and enthusiastic, at first, before he’d refine his technique to an art. You know. He’d map your body with his hands and learn what makes you whimper and moan and repeat it until you were about to break. He’d pull you apart and stich you back together again over and over again, just as he’s done repeatedly in entirely different circumstances.

Your own hands run the length of your body, covered in lube, and you cup your hands around your dick and pretend it’s his mouth sucking, sucking, sucking. He’d have his own dick in one of his hands, working himself as he lapped and sucked at yours. The other hand would be working its way to your ass. He wouldn’t let you touch him at all, and it would be torturous, your own fingers clenched behind your back. His baby blues would be constantly focussed on you, trying to hold your gaze, but eventually it would be too much.

He’d time it so you came together; he’d groan around your dick and suck it to the back of his throat with his own release, swallowing all he could. You’d double over and worry that your knees would give out. Eventually, your soft dick would slip from between his lips, and he’d rest his forehead against your stomach for a few moments, gathering himself, before you’d help him up and pull his head against your chest. You’d hold him there, stroking, whispering sweet nothings incoherently in to his skin, until the water ran cold.

Your eyes suddenly snap open and they’re not met with black hair and bronze-kissed skin; instead you’re standing alone in the bunker shower, Sam banging on the door yelling, “Dean! Dean, are you okay in there? You haven’t slipped over drunkenly in the shower, have you?” and you’re yelling back roughly, “Nah, just enjoying the heat,” before you turn off the water and step out in to the bathroom. You feel kind of nauseous, now, the pain of missing him greater than ever, but you try to swallow it down with another gulp of beer as look at your reflection in the mirror.

You haven’t seen him in three weeks, and you’ve been driven to drunken shower fantasies.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Dean/Cas work xmas party with bonus Claire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fic for [Twelve days of Destiel](12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com). Not gonna lie; this is one huge geekfest and a tribute to both Dean and Charlie’s obsession with geek culture (Dean’s not quite so evident in the show, of course). Totally not influenced by my own interests. Nope. Oh, and I wanted to include Claire in some way. I feel like, if the situation was different, her and Dean would probably get on, so. I tried!

Dean hates Christmas.

He hates the crowds. He hates the decorations. He hates the materialism, the carols, the frenzy. And he especially hates work Christmas parties.

He’s stuck at one now, fighting the urge to tug the stupid red santa hat from his head and stomp out angrily. Crowley organised it, of course, which means that he’s tried to make it ironic as possible: the entire room is decked out in tinsel and the most incredibly kitsch decorations Dean thinks he’s ever seen. Everyone’s sporting angel-and-demon themed headgear, too, which makes it worse - Dean’s hat has tiny little devil’s horns that dangle just above his ears. Garth also put too much vodka in the punch, so not only does it taste like crap, but those who are drinking it are getting progressively drunker very quickly. And to top it off the hot new attorney he’s been admiring for weeks hasn’t shown up yet. Regardless, Dean grits his teeth and takes another swill from his beer bottle, because he promised Charlie he’d play wingman. She’s over with Jo at her desk now now, inevitably whispering about Dorothy, sending furtive glances in Dorothy’s direction as she chats idly to Benny. Dean rolls his eyes and considers his other options: Bobby’s nursing a glass of vile punch and talking very animatedly to Rufus in the corner; Garth is dancing very poorly with Aaron by the water cooler; and Bella is trying to chat up two men and a woman simultaneously. So it’s like a normal day at the office, really.

Dean seriously begins to consider how he can make a surreptitious escape when he feels someone press against his shoulder.

“No collateral yet?” a rough voice asks dryly. Dean feels his stomach roll uncomfortably. He laughs.

“Wait for Secret Santa. It ends in tears every year.” He turns to face the Hot New Attorney, whose actual name is Castiel, and who appears to have an issue with personal space. Dean doesn’t mind. “Get out while you can, man.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Castiel’s lips. “Admittedly, Crowley played the ‘mandatory attendance or instant dismissal’ card, or I’d be at home watching Dr. Sexy reruns.”

“I’m with you, as long as it’s the early stuff. Can’t beat Seasons 1-5.” Damn, hot and good taste. The dude’s too good to be true, Dean thinks. There’s gotta be a catch. He tries to stop himself from thinking about sitting on the couch with Cas with a beer in hand as Dr. Sexy plays on the screen behind them, but it doesn’t matter, anyway, as they’re hardly paying attention… he wonders how that quiet intensity Cas has would translate to sex.

A huff of air comes from behind Castiel, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “C’mon, gramps. Stop flirting. The faster you make the rounds the faster we can get out of here.” From the doorway emerges what Dean bets is The Catch: a slight blond teenage girl with a lot of attitude, going by the ripped jeans and the petulant expression. Cas has a kid. Cas probably has lots of kids, and is married, and lives in a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a dog called Fido and a Christmas tree heaped with presents. All Dean’s dirty thoughts go ‘poof.’

Cas looks awkward, uncomfortable. “Claire, please.”

She rolls her eyes in response.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean says, trying not to let disappointment color his tone. “I’m with you on getting outta here as fast as possible.” He takes a large gulp of his beer, as if to punctuate his point. Cas just hesitates, stalling, like he doesn’t really want to go.

“I’d like to talk to you further, Dean. Perhaps later this evening.” He offers a weak smile before wandering off to probably find Crowley, tailed by the blond kid. Dean watches him pick up a Santa hat on the way, this one adorned with a fluffy wire halo that bobs precariously above the tip of the hat. It looks ridiculous. It looks adorable, particularly coupled with the hideous Christmas sweater he’s wearing, which is tight enough across his hips that it emphasises the gorgeous bulge of his ass. Dean wants to leave as soon as he can.

“Y’know, he’s almost pretty enough to turn me bi, you know,” Charlie says wistfully, appearing at Dean’s side. “Almost. He’s just so…”

“Married?” Dean offers. Charlie frowns.

“No, I was going to say dreamy, but damn. His kid?”

“I dunno who else’s it would be. You look stupid in that hat, by the way.” And she does. It clashes terribly with her red hair. But Charlie just laughs and tugs at Dean’s devil horns.

“Hey, at least I’m an angel. And Dorothy thinks I’m one too.” She taps her own halo pulls a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it from her pocket, her face splitting into a huge grin. Dean smiles back.

“See, you didn’t even need my help.”

“But you’re gonna need mine,” she says, “particularly with an attitude like that.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. I’ll let you bang my gavel all night is now all Mr. Married.”

“The dude turned up at a Christmas party with a kid, Charlie. It’s not rocket science. It’s not 40 man Naxx during Wrath*.”

Charlie frowns. “World of Warcraft has nothing to do with this.”

“I’d rather tackle a mythic raid under-geared. Can’t I just go home?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “You know nothing about the guy’s personal life. And look, if all else fails, you’ll make a friend. Just mention that you’re in one of the top raiding guilds on your server and I’m sure he’ll be really impressed.”

Before Dean realises what she’s doing, Charlie has grabbed his wrist and is dragging him over to where Cas is talking to Crowley. Claire is standing to the side, looking bored as she picks at her fingers. Dean notices one of the badges attached to her bag and starts, thinking, before he grins to himself. Well, at least they have something in common.

“Hey guys!” Charlie says enthusiastically, pushing herself into Crowley and Cas’s conversation. She shoves Dean in the back, hard, in order to push him into the circle, and Dean forgets about trying to talk to Claire. A conversation with a teenager about Magic: The Gathering is going to beat whatever painful tortures this interaction’s gonna be.

“Well if it isn’t my favourite employee,” Crowley says, nodding in Dean’s direction. He turns to Charlie. “… And his sidekick.”

“Shut up, Growley,” Charlie says, her tone bright. “I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming additions to the office network. Over here.” She winks conspiratorially at Dean and moves Crowley off to one of the closest computers. Dean just sighs. Cas looks bemused.

“Sorry about that,” Dean begins. “Charlie’s like a freaking whirlwind.”

“No matter. I’m rather glad the conversation’s over, to be honest. He was getting into ethically ambiguous legal territory and asking me plenty of questions about it.”

“Sounds like Crowley,” Dean says, and falters, because he knows he needs to ask the next question but he doesn’t really want to know the answer. “So your wife didn’t want to come tonight?”

Cas squints, tilting his head to the side. “That’s not-“ he begins. But Claire interrupts.

“Oh my god, I get your shirt now. You’re the dude Cas was telling me about.”

Wait, what. “Huh?”

“Dragon Age? The names on your shirt? Honestly.”

That’s not really the part of her sentence he cares about. “What about it?”

“Cas said there was a guy in the office who blares classic rock after hours - too loudly - when he thinks everyone has left, and plays video games in his lunchbreak.”

“And you have an Orzhov badge on your bag – what’s your point?”

She levels him with an even gaze, her wide blue eyes, cherubim face, and tawny hair giving her an angelic air, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’s challenging him, and he knows it. “You’re just pretty cool. You know, for an old guy. And hot. Bit of a DILF, I guess. Cas didn’t mention that part.”

“Claire!” Cas says forcefully. “Enough.”

“Hey kid, I ain’t no one’s father.”

She smiles innocently. “So you evidently have good taste, you’re hot, and I saw you check out my uncle’s ass earlier, so why aren’t you fucking him yet?”

Cas’s face looks like someone just kicked a kitten. Claire looks pleased with herself. And Dean – well, Dean is goddamn pleased, but he tries not to show it. Instead, he smiles right back at her and says, “Because he hasn’t even bought me dinner.”

Claire looks satisfied, and Cas deflates a little, looking slightly less agitated. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says.

“Don’t be,” Dean says. “But if you feel that bad about it, you can buy me a drink to apologise. Or, y’know, dinner.” He understands the implication, but right now, he’s too happy to care.

“Perfect,” Claire says. “You’ve managed to do what you came here to do, Cas – placate your boss and get the number of the hot guy you’ve been pining after for weeks - so can we go now, please?”

“Um, I don’t actually have his number,” Cas says, pulling his phone from his pocket and handing it to Dean. “If you wouldn’t mind?” He’s slightly sheepish. Dean finds it endearing.

“Cat’s out of the bag now for both of us, I guess,” Dean says, inputting his contact details and adding a heart next to his first name, just to be cheeky. “Claire just beat me to it.”

“There’s a cat? What?” Cas says, frowning as he pockets his phone. Claire rolls her eyes.

“We’re leaving before you embarrass yourself further, old man,” Claire says irritably.

“Before you embarrass me again, you mean.”

“Whatever. Hey, Dean, if it works out between you and my uncle, may the best gamer win and all that, yeah?”

“You’re on, kid.”

 

Later that evening, well after Cas and Claire have left, Charlie approaches Dean as he’s trying to find another bottle of beer. Or, even better, whiskey. He can walk home; Baby’d be right in the office garage. “Success?” she says, hands on her hips.

“You’d think a dickheaded suit would have better taste in alcohol, wouldn’t you. It’s all Garth’s goddamn fucking awful punch. Did I tell you that you look gorgeous tonight, though? Because you do.”

Charlie sighs irritably. “Shut up. I mean with Cas.”

“Oh, right.” Dean flashes her a grin. “Guess we both got lucky tonight, eh.”

“Ew,” Charlie wrinkles her nose before smiling back at him.

“I didn’t even need to mention how big my love of Game of Thrones is, or how many WoW achievement points I have. All in the Winchester charm.”

“You’re such a jerk, Dean. The worst.” But she’s still smiling.

 

They go out on Christmas Eve, because Claire’s apparently with her grandparents. “I’ve been her legal guardian since her parents – my brother - died five years ago,” Cas says solemnly on the phone. “It was a car accident. Suddenly I was the parent of an eleven year old. I can’t say it did wonders for my dating life, but I adore her, so it doesn’t matter, really.”

Cas insists on taking him to an expensive Indian restaurant. Dean insists that he’d be perfectly happy with a burger at the closest diner, but Cas insists that he’s going to do this properly. So there’s wine and silver service and shared curries and excellent conversation. And, hey, it might not be pie, but Dean is in love with the gulab jamun.

“I lived in India for six months,” Cas says, spearing one of Dean’s dumplings with his fork. Dean swats Cas’s arm away. “The curry is delicious, but it doesn’t quite compare. Have you travelled much?”

Dean shrugs and waits until he’s finished his mouthful. “I used to travel around the US with my brother, Sammy, a fair bit. Only been to Scotland otherwise.” He exaggerates a shudder. “I hate flying. You?”

“I can’t say I love flying, no, but I tolerate it.”

“No, I mean, have you travelled much.”

Cas purses his lips and tilts his head, eying Dean with curiosity again, as he so often does. “Yes. I’ve studied and lived abroad, and I speak five languages.”

Dean tries not to gape. “Um. What brings you to Lawrence, and more specifically our office, then?”

“Change of pace, I suppose. And Claire. Jimmy and I are from the South; we both moved to the Midwest as teenagers, though.” He smiles, and Cas’s mouth distracts Dean. He tries not to imagine how many ways it could phrase ‘come back to mine’ in five languages. He’s so, so fucked. Between the way Cas’s foot presses against his ankle, and the was the light plays across the sharp angles of Cas’s face, Dean wants to be home with him five minutes ago.

So that’s what they do. Cas pays and suggests that they go somewhere for coffee, and Dean says “how about mine.” Cas agrees, before his baby blues suddenly widen and he regards Dean carefully. Dean just nods and – “Hey, mistletoe.”

He’s right. Above them, tied to the streetlight, is a bundle of mistletoe. Cas huffs out a breath of air and the both move at the same time. Dean then has an armful of warm Cas and a mouth pressed against his, curious tongue poking at the seam of his lips, and a hard-on the size of the Chrysler building. Cas tastes like spice and red wine and it’s surprisingly Christmassy. It’s… nice.

“Um, Cas,” Dean eventually mumbles against Cas’s mouth, “I feel like we’re a bit of a cliché standing here with all this snow falling. It’s like a scene from a Christmas Special.”

Cas grins, tinged pink from the cold, mouth stained black from the wine. He looks gorgeous. “Sorry. You just have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Oh, I think I might.”

So Dean gets his fantasy in the end, curled up on the couch with Cas, mugs of hot chocolate and Dr. Sexy forgotten as they make out like teenagers. And, hey, maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
